OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 


OLD  BO  WEN'S  LEGACY 


a 


BY 


EDWIN  ASA  BIX 

AUTHOR  OP  "DEACON  BRADBURY" 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1901 


-M-j 
6 


Copyright,  1901,  by 
EDWIN  ASA  Dix 


THE  DEVINNE  PRESS. 


•  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

i.  U!N  THE  MIDST  OP  LIFE" 1 

H.  DE  MORTUIS 27 

in.  A  WAITING  POLICY    . 45 

rv.  THE  TOILERS 60 

v.  IN  THE  POST-OFFICE 72 

vi.  THE  FIRE 88 

vn.  AFTER-TALK 108 

vm.  REVOLUTION 122 

ix.  DEPARTURE 145 

x.  A  NINE  DAYS'  WONDER 153 

xi.  A  LOVERS'  QUARREL 169 

xii.  CRUSOEHOOD 186 

xiii.  BEATEN  DOWN 201 

xiv.  As  MAN  TO  MAN 214 

xv.  A  NOVEL  PROPOSITION 232 

xvi.  TREASURE -TROVE 247 

xvn.  THE  CATASTROPHE 252 

xvin.  "A  HAPPY  ISSUE"  .  270 


OLD  BOWEJVS  LEGACY 


OLD    BOWEN'S   LEGACY 

I 

"  IN  THE  MIDST  OF  LIFE  " 

EiWYEK  CLARK  sat  in  his  office,  busily 
engaged  in  drawing  up  memoranda  for 
an  abstract  of  title.  It  was  a  bright,  breezy 
day  in  early  May, — a  month  which  in  Vermont 
can  exhibit  both  extremes  of  climate  with  equal 
facility,  but  which,  this  year,  had  so  far  held 
most  laudably  to  the  middle  path.  The  joyous- 
ness  of  spring  was  in  the  air.  The  moist  ground, 
giving  up  the  imprisoned  frosts  of  winter,  was 
releasing  also  the  hibernating  germs  of  vegeta 
ble  and  floral  life.  Bits  of  yellow-green  were 
dotting  the  fields.  The  grass  in  the  village 
grass-plots,  as  on  the  hillsides,  had  taken  on 
fresh  and  vivid  tints.  Peeping  crocuses  and 
stately  little  sprays  of  hyacinth  put  forth  in  the 
sunny  garden-patches.  A  light  breeze  blew 
capriciously  in  from  the  distant  hills,  foothills 
of  the  Green  Mountain  range.  The  day  was 
i  i 


2  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

one  in  which  you  felt  the  life  of  spring,  yet  not 
its  languor. 

The  lawyer's  office  was  a  cozy  little  one-room 
"  L,"  or  extension,  jutting  out  from  the  side  of 
his  comfortable  brown  frame-house.  It  was 
reached  from  the  front  gate  by  a  short,  sepa 
rate  path  which  struck  off  at  an  angle  from  the 
main  one  that  led  to  the  front  porch.  The  of 
fice  was  raised  above  the  ground-level  by  three 
low  steps,  and  there  was  a  tiny  portico  with 
two  opposing  bench-seats,  where,  in  open-air 
weather,  waiting  village  clients  might  sit,  pend 
ing  the  conclusion  of  some  interview  within ; 
for  Mr.  Clark's  legal  den  consisted  of  only  one 
apartment,  and  there  was  none  of  the  forbidding 
dignity  and  pomp  of  waiting-room  and  office- 
boy  and  an  inner  office  walled  off  by  partition 
and  ground-glass  door.  There  was,  indeed,  sel 
dom  occasion  even  for  the  portico  benches,  for 
the  local  needs  for  the  law's  aid  were  not  ex 
acting.  Still  Mr.  Clark  was  kept  fairly  busy, 
and  had  always  found  his  legal  income  large 
enough  for  easy  living. 

He  was  turning  over  and  reviewing  his  thin 
batch  of  manila-paper  memoranda,  throwing 
back  the  long  legal-cap  leaves  at  the  upper  end, 
one  by  one,  as  he  ran  over  their  contents. 

"  An  easy  search,"  he  reflected  with  satisfac 
tion.  "  I  wish  all  titles  were  as  straightforward 
as  this  Bradbury  one.  Three  generations  with- 


"IN  THE  MIDST   OF  LIFE"  3 

out  a  conveyance,  and  precious  few  before  that. 
I  'd  've  been  willing  to  guarantee  this  mortgage 
without  troubling  to  do  the  searching.  How 
ever,  it 's  as  well  to  have  it  done  and  ready  for 
the  loan  when  he  wants  it  at  the  end  of  the 
summer." 

The  inner  door  leading  from  the  house  opened, 
and  Mrs.  Clark,  a  composed  yet  alert-faced 
matron,  entered  the  room. 

"  Samuel,"  she  said,  "  Peter  Merritt  's  'round 
at  the  back  door.  Old  Mr.  Bo  wen  's  sent  him 
down  after  you." 

"  What  for  ? "  queried  the  lawyer. 

"  He  's  down  sick,  Peter  says ;  and  he  wants 
to  see  you." 

"  Anything  serious  1  Why  did  n't  Peter  come 
around  here  to  th'  office  door?" 

"  I  don't  know  how  serious  it  is.  Peter  seems 
to  think  he 's  rather  bad,  but  you  can't  tell  much 
from  what  Peter  Merritt  says.  He  has  n't  much 
sense.  When  he  came  trapesing  'round  to  the 
back  door,  I  had  to  ask  him  if  he  expected  to 
find  you  helping  Lucy  with  the  clothes-lines  or 
doing  odd  jobs  'round  the  chicken-house ;"  and 
Mrs.  Clark's  face  broke  into  an  irrepressible 
smile. 

"Well,"  said  her  husband,  good-humoredly, 
as  he  put  away  his  papers,  "  he  might  have,  you 
know.  I  'd  like  to  know  who  keeps  those 
chicken-house  laths  nailed  firm  if  I  don't.  Yes, 


4  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

and  I  did  help  to  string  up  some  new  clothes 
lines,  only  week  before  last." 

He  slipped  his  thin  steel-rimmed  spectacles 
into  their  case,  took  a  sheet  or  two  of  legal-cap 
paper,  and  stood  up. 

"  Where  'd  you  leave  Peter  1 "  he  asked. 

"  'Round  at  the  back.  I  could  n't  get  him  to 
come  here  to  the  office  for  you.  He  seemed  to 
have  an  idea  that  a  lawyer's  office  was  a  dread 
ful  place." 

"  I  suppose  it  does  come  to  seem  so  to  people, 
sometimes,"  mused  Mr.  Clark,  with  a  little  laugh. 
"No  doubt  it 's  the  fault  of  the  lawyers — or  the 
law."  He  reached  for  his  hat.  "Well,  let  's 
hunt  up  Peter  and  see  what  he  says.  Sim 
Bowen  comes  of  pretty  lusty  stock,  and  I  don't 
believe  there  can  be  anything  serious  the  matter 
with  him.  Let  me  see :  he 's  only  seventy-four." 

"  Seventy-four  is  old,  when  you  've  lived  such 
a  hard  and  loveless  and  disappointing  and  soli 
tary  life  as  Sim  Bowen  has,"  returned  his  wife, 
as  the  lawyer  followed  her  into  the  house ;  and 
Mrs.  Clark's  tone  was  not  without  the  element 
of  divine  pity  which  all  true  women  feel  for 
thwarted  or  fruitless  lives.  She  went  back  to 
her  sewing-room,  and  her  husband  passed  on 
through  the  cheery  dining-room  and  the  kitchen 
to  the  little  arbor  in  the  rear,  just  outside, 
where  awkward  Peter  Merritt  sat,  nervously 
twirling  his  battered  felt  hat. 


"IN  THE  MIDST   OF  LIFE"  5 

"Mornin',  squire,"  said  the  messenger,  rising 
as  the  lawyer  approached. 

"Morning,  Peter.  Mrs.  Clark  says  you  've 
come  for  me  to  go  up  to  Mr  Bowen's." 

"  Yes.    He  's  pretty  bad." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  the  other, 
startled. 

"  I  don'  know.  P'ralysis,  likely.  Took  earl/ 
this  mornin'." 

"Paralysis?  You  don't  say!  Come,  let  's 
get  up  there  at  once."  They  moved  out  from 
the  lattice  arbor  and  around  the  house  to  the 
front  path  and  through  the  gate.  "  Doctor 
been  up  ? "  went  on  Mr.  Clark,  as  they  quickened 
their  pace  along  the  street. 

"He  was  jest  leavin'  when  I  came  down  fr 
you." 

"What  did  he  say  about  it?" 

"I  did  n't  stay  t'  hear.  Seemed  as  ef  you 
were  th'  one  th'  ol'  man  wanted  t'  see,  more  'u 
th'  doctor.  More  'n  th'  minister,  too,  I  guess," 
added  Peter,  with  a  vacant  chuckle.  "  Don't 
b'lieve  th'  minister  'd  know  th'  way  ef  he  was 
arst.  Th'  ol'  man  ain't  troubled  ministers  much 
in  his  day." 

The  lawyer  knew  this  well,  enough,  and  re 
flected  on  it  while  he  hurried  on  through  the 
village  street  with  his  shambling  companion. 
They  turned  off  into  a  narrower  road  which 
led  up  a  long  hill. 


6  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

Mr.  Clark  said  little  more,  but  his  thoughts 
were  busy  as  they  moved  on.  Among  persons 
knowing  or  knowing  of  each  other  so  long  and 
intimately  as  is  the  case  in  a  small  village  like 
Felton,  there  is  a  certain  shock  attendant  upon 
news  of  the  death  or  illness  of  a  member  of 
the  community,  akin  to  that  felt  in  the  case 
of  an  own  relative.  People  come  to  interlock 
so  closely  into  one  another's  lives  and  associa 
tions,  their  personalities  are  so  near  and  vivid 
and  constantly  present,  that  anything  affect 
ing  one  sends  a  thrill  through  all.  Simeon 
Bowen  had  been  a  conspicuous  if  not  admired 
landmark  in  the  region  for  more  years  in  the 
past  than  the  middle-aged  lawyer  himself  could 
count ;  and  his  fall  would  be  as  the  fall  of  some 
gaunt,  prominent  village  elm,  long  since  riven 
and  sapless,  incapable  of  affording  shade  or 
beauty,  yet  a  fixed  part  of  the  street  scene  so 
familiar  to  all. 

Bowen's  house  stood,  bare  and  lonely,  in  a 
large,  neglected  inclosure,  protected  by  a  strag 
gling  "  Virginia  fence,"  and  widening  off  at  the 
rear  into  outlying  fields,  a  vegetable-garden,  and 
a  pasture.  The  grounds,  despite  a  certain  neg 
lect,  were  all  evidencing,  in  leaf  and  shoot  and 
bloom,  the  uprush  of  the  spring,  and  the  wind 
coursed  buoyantly  through  the  thinly  green 
branches  overhead.  Mr.  Clark  looked  about 
with  practised  eye  as  they  moved  up  the  path. 


"IN   THE   MIDST   OF   LIFE"  7 

"  You  don't  keep  this  up  very  well,  Peter,"  he 
remarked  as  he  took  in  the  details  of  the  scene. 

"  I  do  as  well 's  need  be,"  returned  the  other, 
bridling  at  the  attack,  yet  not  boldly.  "  Th'  ol' 
man  don't  eat  much  an'  don't  want  much,  an'  I 
don't,  an'  we  git  more  'n  enough  off  th'  farm 
jest  as  't  is.  An'  he  won't  let  me  give  any  o'  th' 
produce  away,  n'r  yit  sell  it." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  responded  the  lawyer,  discern 
ing  that,  with  all  motives  to  thrift  thus  removed, 
the  farm-hand  and  man-of-all-work  was  perhaps 
not  much  to  blame,  after  all.  "  I  dare  say  any 
of  us  would  get  to  feel  the  same  way  in  Peter's 
place,"  was  his  broad  mental  comment,  as  he 
pushed  open  the  creaky  front  door  and  entered 
alone. 

There  was  in  his  mind  a  dimly  felt  irritation 
against  the  old  man  whom  he  had  come  to  see 
and  whose  selfish  views  of  life  had  resulted  in 
a  policy  so  narrow  and  wasteful  and  in  a  frui 
tion  so  barren.  He  ascended  the  stairs  with 
sure  step,  for  he  had  been  in  the  house  before, 
at  infrequent  times,  though  never  to  find  its 
owner  ill.  On  the  upper  landing  he  paused. 

"Which  room,  Mr.  Bo  wen!"  he  called  out 
distinctly. 

"  In  here,"  came  a  reply,  and  he  followed  the 
direction  of  the  voice. 

Simeon  Bowen  lay  on  a  bed  opposite  the 
entrance,  and  his  visitor  at  once  saw  that  Le 


8  OLD  BO  WEN'S  LEGACY 

was  gravely  stricken.  Part  of  the  face  was 
drawn  and  contorted,  and  even  underneath  the 
sheet  and  blanket  the  outlines  of  the  thin, 
withered  body  seemed  to  reveal  a  sudden  limp 
helplessness  of  the  entire  side  turned  toward 
the  newcomer.  The  sick  man  was  lying  on  his 
back,  but  he  was  able  to  turn  his  head  and  neck 
as  the  other  came  in,  and  his  voice,  curt  and 
rasping  as  ever,  showed  that  the  stroke  had  not 
affected  his  vocal  organs. 

"I  've  been  wantin'  t'  see  ye,  Sam  Clark," 
was  his  greeting,  as  the  other  came  to  the 
bedside. 

Mr.  Clark  could  not  but  feel  a  sympathy  for 
the  man's  helpless  condition,  although  the 
indomitable  ring  of  the  latter's  voice  showed 
that  the  old  fighting  Bowen  spirit  had  lost 
little  of  its  pugnacity,  and  asked  no  pity,  no 
quarter. 

"I  'm  very  sorry  to  find  you  in  this  state, 
Mr»  Bowen,"  he  said,  taking  inadvertently  the 
other's  useless  hand  and  hurriedly  substituting 
for  it  the  other,  which  crisply  returned  his 
grasp.  "I  only  just  heard  of  your — attack, 
and  came  right  up." 

"Yes,"  came  back,  in  the  other's  raucous 
tones.  "Y'  can't  wrastle  with  an  angel — or  a 
devil — thet  '11  end  by  techin'  th'  hollow  o'  y'r 
thigh  an'  takin'  an  underhand  advantage.  I 
c'd  've  kep'  it  up  f'r  years  yit,  on  even  terms ;  but 


"IN  THE  MIDST   OF  LIFE"  9 

what  c'n  y'  do  when  Omnipotence  won't  play 
fair?" 

"  What  is  it  f  "  asked  the  lawyer,  briefly. 

"  P'ralysis.  Doctor  thinks  it 's  affected  th'  vital 
organs.  I  sent  f  r  ye  t'  help  me  make  my  will." 

"I  hope  it  's  not  so  serious  as  that,  Mr. 
Bowen.  Doctors  may  be  mistaken,  you  know. 
We  can  fix  the  will,  safe  enough,  of  course ;  but 
you -must  n't  regard  signing  it  as  signing  a  sort 
of  death-warrant,  the  way  so  many  do." 

"I  hev  n't  got  many  superstitions  left,"  said 
the  old  man,  grimly ;  "  an'  thet  ain't  one  o'  those 
I  hev.  Set  down,  will  ye  ? " 

"Can  I  get  you  anything, — do  something  for 
you,— first!"  Mr.  Clark  looked  around  with 
an  earnest  desire  to  be  of  help,  but  with  a  mas 
culine  helplessness  in  the  presence  of  illness. 
The  stricken  man,  little  used  to  self-coddling, 
was  equally  at  a  loss  as  to  matters  that  might 
now  conduce  to  his  comfort,  and  had  no  favors 
to  ask. 

"  Pete  gave  me  s'm'  breakfst  b'fore  he  went 
out,"  he  said ;  "  an'  there  's  beddin'  enough  on 
me,  an'  I  don'  know  of  anythin'  else  I  want. 
'Cept  t'  git  up  an'  move  about  ag'in,"  he  added, 
with  a  glance  along  his  motionless  frame,  "  an' 
I  don't  see  's  I  'm  ever  likely  t'  do  thet  now." 
He  made  a  wry,  impatient  face,  which  was  far 
from  expressing  resignation. 

Mr.  Clark  stood  for  a  minute  uncertainly,  and 


10  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

then,  thinking  of  no  immediate  service  to 
proffer,  drew  up  a  light  chair  to  the  bedside. 

"Doctor  wanted  I  sh'd  hev  a  nuss  or  some 
one  t'  do  f  r  me,"  went  on  Mr.  Bowen ;  "  but  I 
said,  no ;  I  'd  done  f  r  myself  all  my  life,  an'  I  'd 
keep  on  doin'  f  r  myself  till  I  was  done  fur  by 
th'  Almighty.  An'  ef  thet  's  happened  now," 
he  added  reflectively,  "  I  don'  know  's  I  keer." 

Mr.  Clark  was  a  stanch  church-member  and 
a  strong  believer. 

"You  ought  to  care,"  he  said  authoritatively. 

"  Why  'd  I  ought  f  keer  !  What 's  life  done  f'r 
me, — or  you  either,  or  any  of  us,  f'r  thet  matter, 
— but  what 's  it  done  f'r  me,  t'  make  me  keer  f'r 
it?  What  's  th'  world  done  f'r  me?  What  's 
any  person  in  this  'ere  village,  thet  I  've  known 
an'  lived  in  all  my  life,  done  f'r  me  ? " 

"Perhaps  the  question  is  just  as  much, 
what  've  you  done  for  them?" 

"No,  't  ain't.  I  ain't  talkin'  o'  thet  side. 
We  '11  allow  I  've  done  much  or  little,  jest  as 
y'  'd  ruther  hev  it.  Thet  ain't  th'  p'int.  What 
I  want  t'  know  is,  what  good 's  it  done  me, — me, 
y'  understand,— t'  exist?  What  good  've  I  got 
out  of  it  ?  Here  's  seventy-four  years  gone,  an' 
hard  work  an'  hard  knocks  an'  hard  feelin's  in 
every  one  of  'em  sence  I  c'd  creep,  pretty  nigh ; 
an'  here  I  be,  in  th'  year  eighteen  seventy-one, 
lyin'  on  this  bed  with  one  half  o'  me  dead  an' 
th'  other  half  likely  t'  foller." 


"IN   THE  MIDST   OF  LIFE"  11 

The  old  man  was  evidently  in  the  mood  for 
an  outpouring  of  long-nourished  feelings.  His 
visitor  saw  this,  and  found  himself  not  averse 
to  it.  Mr.  Clark's  compassion  remained  un- 
lessened,  but  he  felt  the  instinct  of  healthy  com 
bat  rise  and  range  itself  beside  it.  Mr.  Clark 
was  no  dumb  listener,  and  doubtless  the  dying 
old  farmer  was  the  more  willing  to  try  conclu 
sions  with  a  foeman  worthy  of  his  steel. 

"  Sixty  year  out  o'  these  seventy-four,"  pur 
sued  old  Bo  wen,  "I  've  been  wonderin'  what  I 
was  made  fur;  an'  what  I  was  gittin'  out  o' 
livin' ;  an',  ef  I  was  n't  gittin'  it,  who  was ;  an' 
I  s'pose  I  kep'  thinkin'  I  'd  know  some  time  or 
other  b'fore  th'  years  were  finished.  An'  now 
here  's  th'  end,  an'  I  see  I  don't  know,  after  all, 
an'  never  come  near  knowin',  n'r  would  have,  t' 
th'  end  o'  time.  An'  ef  I  can't  tell  myself,  you 
can't  tell  me ;  n'r  any  one  else." 

"No;  if  you  can't  tell,  no  one  else  can  tell 
you.  But  that  's  not  a  thing  to  reproach 
the  world  with,  Mr.  Bowen,"  said  the  lawyer, 
sternly. 

"  Who  keers  f  r  reproachin'  1  Ef  y'  mean  thet 
I  'd  ought  t'  reproach  myself,  I  don't  agree. 
But  ef  I  did,  it  don't  matter;  it  don't  answer 
my  question." 

"  How  do  other  people  answer  it — for  them 
selves  1 " 

"  I  don'  know.    I  've  heared  'em  tryin'  to,  onct 


12  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

in  a  while,  an'  even  think  in'  they  were  suc- 
ceedin' ;  but  I  never  c'd  see  it.  They  're  a  poor, 
miser'ble  lot,  every  man-jack  of  'em,  in  this 
taown  or  any  other ;  an'  as  fur  as  my  observa 
tion  's  gone,  they  've  got  more  bad  faults  than 
good  feelin's,  they  make  more  misses  in  life 
than  they  do  hits,  an'  they  git  a  dern  sight 
more  onhappiness  out  of  it  than  they  ever 
git  pleasure." 

"  Then  men  are  in  a  way  to  be  a  good  deal 
pitied,"  observed  his  hearer,  not  without  satire. 

The  old  man  restlessly  moved  his  sound  arm 
and  leg  beneath  the  covers. 

"  No,  they  ain't,"  he  affirmed.  "  They  deserve 
all  they  git.  Many  a  time  I  've  run  my  mind 
over  th'  people  in  this  taown  o'  Felton,  Sam 
Clark,  an'  I  c'n  tell  ye  there 's  precious  few  thet  's 
got  enough  good  stuff  in  'em  t'  've  made  it  wuth 
while  t'  create  'em.  An'  they  're  a  fair  sample, 
I  take  it." 

"  Then  you  think  Creation  's  a  failure  ?  " 

"  Most  o'  what  I  've  seen  of  it  is.  There  's 
frost  t'  nip  an'  drought  t'  wither ;  th'  crops  fail, 
but  trouble  never  does.  An'  mankind,  which 
we  're  told  is  the  sum  an'  crown  o'  Creation,  ain't 
nothin'  but  jest  a  mean,  bickerin'  set,  with  all 
th'  cardinal  virtues  under  an'  all  th'  cardinal 
vices  up  an'  fightin'  among  themselves.  Mebbe 
they  're  too  pitiful  t'  blame,  but  they  're  cert'nly 
too  blamable  t'  pity." 


"IN  THE  MIDST   OF  LIFE"  13 

"  It  would  be  better  to  help  than  either  to 
blame  or  pity,  as  I  look  at  it." 

"  Help  ?  What  c'n  y'  do  ?  What 's  th'  use  o' 
tryin'  ?  Y'  can't  git  th'  salt  tears  out  o'  th'  ocean. 
Y'  can't  git  th'  sufferin'  an'  th'  littleness  an' 
contemptibleness  out  o'  mankind.  Beelzebub 
reigns." 

"Beelzebub  reigns  over  those  who  sacrifice 
to  him,"  spoke  the  other.  "If  one  chooses  to 
believe  in  horns  rather  than  wings,  one 's  open  to 
do  so.  But  more  surely  than  there  are  devils, 
there  are  angels,  Simeon  Bowen,  and  I  tell  you 
so  solemnly." 

"  They  ain't  so  much  in  evidence,  then,  I  tell 
ye,"  returned  the  other,  invincibly.  "  Now  you 
take  me.  I  git  back  t'  where  I  started.  What 's 
been  th'  use  of  it  t'  me!  I  've  been  visited  by 
mighty  few  angels,  but  more  horned  devils  of 
trouble  an'  worry  an'  misfortune  than  y'  c'd 
shake  a  stick  at.  An'  here  I  be,  as  th'  end  of 
it  all." 

"Yes.  It  's  a  text  for  Creation  to  preach  a 
sermon  to  you  from,  rather  than  for  you  to 
preach  at  Creation." 

"  J  don't  see  no  sermon  in  it." 

"Shall  I  tell  you?" 

"  I  wish  y'  would, — ef  y'  c'n  do  it." 

"  Very  well ;  then  I  will."  The  lawyer's  face 
took  on  an  unwonted  expression  of  sternness, 
mingled  wHh  the  intense  earnestness  of  convic- 


14  OLD  BO  WEN'S  LEGACY 

tion,  as  he  moved  his  chair  the  better  to  front 
the  sick  man's  eyes,  and  leaned  forward  to  meet 
his  gaze.  "You  're  an  older  man  than  I  am, 
Simeon  Bowen,  but,  before  God,  I  have  a  mes 
sage  to  deliver  to  you,  and  if  I  don't  deliver  it 
now,  I  never  may.  I  '11  tell  you  why  the  world 
looks  dark  to  you:  it  's  because  you  've  shut 
your  eyes  to  its  light.  I  '11  tell  you  why  men 
seem  despicable  to  you:  because  you  've  prac 
tised  despising,  all  your  life,  and  never  once 
tried  admiring,  let  alone  revering.  I  '11  tell  you 
why  all  Creation  seems  a  failure :  because  you  've 
let  all  Creation  center  in  you !  " 

The  drawn  face  upon  the  pillow  attempted  to 
form  itself  into  an  instinctive  sneer. 

"No,"  said  the  lawyer,  answering  the  look; 
"  this  is  n't  smart  speaking ;  it 's  truth.  From 
the  time  you  've  known  men  at  all,  you  've 
moved  among  them  getting  blinder  and  blinder 
to  their  good  points  and  readier  and  readier 
to  see  their  bad  ones..  You  've  painstakingly 
walled  up  your  soul  to  every  good  impression 
that  any  other  soul  might  make  on  it.  You  've 
dug  underground  and  never  looked  up  at  the 
sky.  You  've  had  two  wide-open,  microscopic 
eyes  for  every  little  petty  vanity  and  fault  and 
failing  of  the  people  around  you,  and  you  've 
closed  both  to  the  charities  and  generosities  and 
noblenesses  and  general  humanity  that 's  to  be 
found  in  every  one  of  'em.  They  have  faults 


"IN   THE   MIDST   OF  LIFE"  15 

and  failings,  goodness  knows,  and  the  very  fact 
that  nature  's  hard,  as  you  say,  accounts  for 
half  of  'em ;  and  the  other  half  are  a  good  deal 
more  than  offset  by  what  they  feel  and  do  that 's 
good." 

"  That 's  a  matter  o'  calc'lation,"  rasped  the 
other,  dryly.  "I  can't  say  's  I  agree  with 
ye." 

"  I  don't  expect  you  will.  A  man  can't  change 
the  beliefs  of  a  lifetime  in  an  hour, — nor  in 
a  year  nor  ten,  sometimes, — even  if  he  should 
come  to  want  to.  All  the  more  risk  when  he  's 
forming  his  beliefs.  But  it 's  not  calculation. 
It 's  plain,  bare,  naked  truth.  I  tell  you  there 's 
a  million  times  more  right  in  nature  than  there 
is  wrong,  and  ten  million  times  more  good  in 
the  human  race  than  there  is  bad.  Why,  if 
your  eyes  had  ever  been  open  to  it  all,  you  'd 
see  good  hearts  and  good  thoughts  and  good 
acts  as  thick  among  men  as  the  stars  in  heaven ; 
and  just  as  thick  in  this  town  as  anywhere 
from  Maine  to  California  or  China  or  the  Gala 
pagos  Islands." 

Mr.  Clark,  usually  genial  and  self-contained, 
seldom  grew  excited.  He  was  invariably  calm 
in  court,  and  equally  so  elsewhere,  save  on  the 
rare  occasions  when  his  feelings  were  strongly 
affected.  On  such  occasions  he  could  speak 
out,  as  now,  with  a  power  and  passion  based 
only  on  the  intensest  convictions.  It  had  never 


16  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

happened  to  Mr.  Bowen  to  see  him.  in  this 
mood  before,  and  he  listened  with  a  half-startled 
thrill. 

Mr.  Clark's  firm,  frank,  fearless  face  grew  set 
as  he  J  ilked,  and  his  voice  gathered  depth  and 
fuJl  ,,*s  as  of  a  judge  delivering  sentence. 

"  Even  if  men  were  half  good  and  half  evil,"  he 
went  on  impetuously,  "  it  would  be  a  contemp 
tible  thing  to  dwell  only  on  the  latter  for  a 
whole  lifetime.  Even  if  they  were  one  tenth 
good, — one  hundredth,  if  you  like, — have  n't  we 
got  to  make  the  most  of  what  there  is,  keep  the 
little  sputtering  flame  alive  rather  than  puff  at 
it  and  spit  at  it  and  call  out  that  it 's  out  and 
there  is  nothing  but  cold  and  evil  1 " 

"  I  sh'd  say  it  was  out  without  any  puttin' 
out,— ef  it  ever  was  lighted,"  observed  Bowen, 
with  the  old  scoff. 

"  You  ask  what  life  has  done  for  you.  I  ask 
what  you  've  done  for  life.  I  'm  preaching  no 
sermon,  Mr.  Bowen,  and  I  'm  talking  no  cant ; 
but  I  tell  you  squarely  that  a  man  gets  out  of 
life  whatever  he  puts  into  it.  You  can  twist 
that  truth  out  of  shape,  if  you  like,  and  play  with 
it  and  jeer  at  it,  but  at  bottom  it  's  true;  and 
the  greatest  pity  that  the  Deity  and  his  angels 
can  feel  is  for  those  who  have  gone  through  life 
and  never  realized  it." 

A  strange,  wistful  glitter  came  into  the  sick 
man's  eyes,  and  his  free  hand  came  forth  from 


"IN  THE   MIDST  OF  LIFE"  17 

under  the  bedclothes  and  nervously  began 
clutching  at  the  outer  blanket. 

"  I  hain't  gotten  much  out  of  it,"  he  said ; 
"an'  I  don'  know  's  I  ever  tried  to  put  much 
into  it." 

"Then  you  've  missed  the  only  reaso.  "or 
living  at  all, — apart  from  its  bearing  on  any 
future  life,  and  I  'm  not  bringing  that  into  the 
question.  I  've  merely  put  it  on  the  lower  plane 
of  self-interest." 

"  I  did  n't  know  y'  hed  sech  strong  feelin's  in 
ye,  Lawyer  Clark,"  said  the  old  man,  in  involun 
tary  admiration. 

"  I  have ;  though  I  don't  always  express  them. 
But  this  is  one  of  the  times  to  do  it,  it  seems 
to  me." 

"  What  fur  1  It 's  too  late  f 'r  ye  t'  change  my 
way  o'  thinkin'." 

"  Perhaps  it  is.  But  it 's  not  too  late  to  show 
you  there  's  other  ways ;  and  I  should  n't  won 
der  if  you  admitted  they  might  be  better  ways." 

"  P'r'aps  they  are.  I  hain't  seen  much  t'  jus 
tify  'em." 

"  Because  you  never  looked.  You  started  out 
to  keep  your  eyes  shut,  and  then  said  there  was 
nothing  to  see.  You  say  that  frost  nips  and 
drought  withers.  Yes ;  but  you  don't  say  that 
seeds  spring  up  and  harvests  ripen,  and  flowers 
and  fruit  come,  and  birds  sing ;  and  that  on  this 
glorious  spring  day  outside,  the  very  earth  is  so 


18  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

full  of  life  and  sap  and  strength  that  it 's  just 
bursting  with  it  and  filling  even  these  neglected 
old  grounds  with  promise." 

"  Look  here,"  cried  the  other ;  "  you  've  never 
tried  t'  git  y'r  livin'  out  of  a  farm,  or  ye  'd  think 
more  about  what  winter  an'  summer  does,  an' 
less  about  spring  an'  fall.  Ef  it  'd  been  all 
spring  an'  fall,  I  'd  've  been  well-to-do  b'fore 
now,  'stead  o'  dyin'  at  th'  end  of  it  with  a  scant 
five  thousand  dollars  t'  th'  good, — an'  part  o' 
thet  was  handed  down  t'  me." 

"  And  if  it  'd  been  all  winter  and  summer, 
you  'd  be  dying  with  none.  You  're  not  a  soft 
man,  Mr.  Bowen,  and  I  don't  take  it  that  you 
want  soft  words  now  any  more  than  any  time ; 
so  I  'm  saying  what  I  think." 

"  Say  ahead,"  responded  the  other,  with  a  half- 
chuckle,  half-sigh.  "  It  don't  do  no  harm,  an' 
it 's  calc'lated  t'  do  good,  though  I  'm  afeared  it 
won't.  I  don't  say  I  would  n't  be  willin'  t'  see 
all  them  good  p'in'ts  in  natur'  an'  human  natur' 
thet  you  talk  of;  but  I  hain't,  an'  I  ain't  likely 
to  now.  Ef  I  could,  I  might  know  better  how 
t'  make  my  will." 

The  word  recalled  the  lawyer's  attention  to 
his  client 's  stricken  and  critical  condition. 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  've  said  too  much,"  he  said,  with 
a  sudden  access  of  compunction,  "and  not  the 
right  kind,  either.  I  ought  to  have  remem 
bered—" 


"IN  THE  MIDST   OF   LIFE"  19 

"  No,  y'  ought  n't,"  broke  in  the  other,  impa 
tiently.  "When  's  a  man  t'  talk  truth  ef  not 
over  a  death-bed?  Don't  you  worry.  Fact  is, 
— well,  y'  've  shaken  my  idee  'bout  thet  will  a 
leetle,  even  ef  y'  hev  n't  shaken  anythin'  else." 

Mr.  Clark  waited  for  a  further  elucidation. 

"  I  've  been  hatin'  th'  hull  run  o'  humankind," 
the  old  man  burst  out.  "  I  don't  say  I  don't 
hate  'em  still,  fr  thet  matter,  though  mebbe 
there  's  grains  o'  good,  as  you  say.  But  I  'd 
settled  it  thet  none  o'  my  five  thousand  dollars 
was  t'  go  t'  do  any  good  t'  people  in  this  taown, 
ef  I  c'd  help  it;  an'  I  don'  know  of  any  other 
taown  thet 's  any  better.  I  hain't  got  a  relation 
in  th'  wide  world;  I  s'pose  you  know  thet  as 
well  's  I  do.  My  only  sister's  daughter,  thet 
lived  in  New  York  State,  ran  off  an'  married  a 
wariderin'  furriner,  an'  a  Watertown  man  wrote 
me  she  died  soon  after.  Barrin'  twenty-five  or 
fifty  dollars  f 'r  Peter  Merritt,  I  was  goin'  t'  leave 
my  money  somewheres  fr  spite,— say  t'  Jim 
Dole,  th'  liquor-seller,  or  t'  th'  free-thinkers,  or 
somethin'  like  thet." 

The  other  said  nothing,  although  his  nostrils 
dilated  a  little. 

Old  Bowen  attempted  to  raise  himself  on  his 
elbow,  but  ineffectually. 

"  S'posin'  I  don't  do  thet,"  he  demanded. 
"  S'posin'  I  'm  willin'  t'  take  y'r  view  a  leetle,  an' 
use  it  t'  do  some  good  1 " 


20  OLD   BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

"Well?" 

"  Don't  you  say  l  church '  t'  me ! " 

" I  was  n't  going  to  say  l church'  to  you,"  re 
turned  the  other,  warmly.  "  It 's  a  wider  ques 
tion  than  what  '11  benefit  any  one  church." 

"  Yes,  it  is.  See  here ;  you  go  down-stairs  an' 
look  'round  th'  place  f'r  'bout  ten  minutes,  will 
ye?  I  want  t' think." 

Mr.  Clark  went  down-stairs,  and  employed 
the  interval  in  giving  Peter  a  few  friendly  hints 
regarding  the  sick  man's  dinner,  which  the  other 
already  had  partly  under  way.  Bowen  kept  no 
housekeeper.  He  would  not  have  one.  The 
washing  was  put  out  weekly  to  Mrs.  Watkins ; 
but  in  other  matters  he  and  Peter  made  shift  to 
do  for  themselves. 

At  the  end  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  lawyer 
returned  to  the  room  up-stairs. 

"  There  's  one  thing  I  want  t'  say  right  now," 
observed  old  Bowen,  as  he  entered ;  "  an'  thet  is 
thet  I  've  hed  idees  like  yours  myself,  some 
times.  Onct  in  a  while  I  'd  git  t'  thinkin'  thet 
mebbe  things  an'  people  wa'n't  so  bad,  after  all. 
I  'd  git  over  it  mighty  soon,  but  I  did  n't  want 
ye  t'  think  I  was— was — " 

"Of  course  you  're  not,"  responded  Mr.  Clark, 
promptly.  "  No  one  is.  No  one  could  be  if  he 
tried.  Everybody  has  moments  when  he  knows 
that  the  good  is  true." 

"I  did  n't  say  'know,'"  returned  the  other, 
cautiously;  "an'  I  ain't  savin'  so  yit.  But 


"IN  THE  MIDST  OF  LIFE"  21 

p'r'aps— p'r'aps.  D'  y'  want  t'  know  what  I  'm 
goin'  t'  do  with  my  money  1 " 

"What?" 

"  I  'm  goin' t'  f oiler  your  views  an'  not  mine. 
Ef  there  's  any  resk,  I  reckon  't  won't  worry 
me  any  after  I  'm  gone." 

"  They  're  not  my  views.  They  're  wise  men's 
views,  from  Bible  times  down.  They  're  natural 
views.  They  're  true  views." 

"  Mebbe.  I  'm  willin'  t'  give  'em  a  trial.  This 
farm  's  t'  be  sold.  Hiram  Wheeler  offered  two 
thousand  dollars  f'r  it  onct,  when  I  was  talkin' 
o'  sellin'.  He  '11  stand  by  it  still.  Th'  place 
joins  on  t'  hisn,  y'  know.  It 's  a  fair  an'  liberal 
price.  You  close  with  it.  Furniture  an'  fixin's 
go  with  it.  Thet  's  two  thousand." 

"Yes." 

"  In  th'  Hingham  Bank  there 's  three  thousand 
more,  drawin'  int'rest.  Th'  bank-book  's  in 
thet  drawer  yonder.  Git  it,  will  ye  ?  " 

The  lawyer  did  so. 

"  Two  an'  three  's  five.  I  hain't  got  no  other 
accounts." 

His  listener  waited  in  silence. 

"  Now  thet  five  thousand  I  'm  goin'  t'  leave 
f'r  you  t'  dispose  of." 

"  For  me  I "  asked  Mr.  Clark,  startled. 

"  Yes.  Y'  're  t'  put  it  where  it  '11  do  th'  most 
good,  in  this  'ere  village  o'  Felton,  any  time 
within  a  year." 

"  That 's  pretty  indefinite,  Mr.  Bowen." 


22  OLD  BO  WEN'S  LEGACY 

"  You  wait  till  I  git  through.  Now.  in  th'  fust 
place,  it  ain't  t'  go  t'  no  church.  Y'  under 
stand?" 

"  Clearly." 

"  Well,  an'  't  ain't  t'  go  an'  be  frittered  away 
in  little  gifts  here  an'  little  gifts  there.  I  want 
it  t'  go  t'gether.  Ef  I  'm  goin'  in  f'r  doin'  good 
at  this  late  day," — the  old  man  made  a  queer, 
rueful  grimace, — "I'd  ruther  do  one  bigger 
good  than  a  lot  o'  little  ones." 

"  Often  the  little  ones  count  more." 

"  I  don't  keer.  What 's  more,  I  don't  think 
so." 

"  Sometimes  it 's  the  other  way,  of  course." 

"Well,  you  make  it  so  this  time.  An  un 
mistakably  worthy  object;  an'  no  conditions. 
Did  y'  bring  any  law  paper  with  ye  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  lawyer,  producing  it. 

"There  's  pen  an'  ink  over  on  thet  table. 
Now  you  go  ahead  an'  draw  all  .thet  up." 

"But  see  here,  Mr.  Bowen,"  protested  the 
other ;  "  that 's  a  very  wide  latitude  you  're  giv 
ing  me.  I  don't  know  that  I  can  accept  any 
such  responsibility.  Be  more  definite." 

"*I  don't  see  any  need  to.  I  '11  trust  you,  Sam 
Clark." 

"It  is  n't  the  trusting;  it  's  the  deciding 
that  I  'm  thinking  of.  It  is  n't  an  e very-day 
occurrence  to  bestow  five  thousand  dollars  in 
a  lump  sum  in  a  small  town  like  this." 


"IN   TPIE   MIDST   OF   LIFE"  23 

"  Well,  see  here :  I  '11  make  three  trustees  in 
stead  o'  one.  You  write  that  th'  money  's  t'  be 
disposed  of  by  you  an'  Nathan  Bradbury  an' — 
let 's  see— Mr.  Pickering ;  actin'  t'gether." 

"  But  the  law  won't  recognize  any  such  in 
definite  trust  as  that,"  protested  Mr.  Clark. 

"Won't  it?  Well,  it  need  n't,  then.  I  don't 
keer  what  way  it 's  done,  s'  long  's  it 's  done  th' 
way  I  want  it.  I  '11  leave  all  th'  money  t'  you, 
then,  outright ;  an'  you  jest  write  in  thet  it 's 
my  desire  thet  you  three  decide  how  t'  dispose 
of  it  th'  way  I  said.  I  '11  trust  you  with  it,  fast 
enough;  an'  I  don't  see  's  th'  law  c'n  object 
t'  thet.  You  fix  it  some  way,  anyhow." 

Despite  Mr.  Clark's  hesitation,  the  impatient 
old  man  would  brook  no  negative,  but  hurried 
forward  the  lawyer's  pen,  until  the  will,  broadly 
drawn  in  accordance  with  his  instructions,  was 
duly  written  out,  subscribed,  and  attested,  a 
neighboring  farmer  and  his  son  being  hunted  up 
by  Peter  and  brought  in  as  witnesses. 

"  There ! "  said  Simeon  Bowen,  with  a  little 
sigh  of  relief,  as  the  witnesses  went  tramping 
down-stairs  again  with  Peter,  "thet  's  done. 
P'r'aps  I  've  made  futur'  trouble  f'r  you,  Lawyer 
Clark,  but  I  've  got  present  trouble  off  o'  myself. 
I  did  n't  feel  quiet,  somehow,  till  thet  property 
was  disposed  of  in  one  way  or  other.  Now  ef 
it  keeps  my  mem'ry  green,  it  '11  be  more  'n  I 
deserve." 


24  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

Mr.  Clark  reached  down  and  clasped  the 
other's  withered  old  hand  with  real  emotion. 

"  There  's  good  in  you  that  you  've  never  ex 
plored,  Simeon  Bo  wen,"  he  said  earnestly.  "Are 
you  exploring  it  now,  perhaps  ?  or  is  it  too  late  ? " 

"  Oh,  it  's  too  late,"  [replied  the  other.  His 
voice  broke  a  little,  and  he  tried  slightly  to  turn 
away  his  face.  "  I  hed  some  trouble,"  he  said, 
with  an  effort,  "a  good  many  years  back.  I 
don't  doubt  it  ought  t'  've  sweetened  me.  It 
did  n't.  It  soured  me  wuss  'n  ever.  I  might 
've  felt  diff'rent  'bout  a  good  many  things, 
'ceptin'  f 'r  thet.  Well,  it 's  all  past  now.  You  've 
done  me  good  to-day,  Sam  Clark." 

"If  that 's  so,  I  wish  I  could  do  you  more,— 
another  day.  There  are  higher  things  to  think 
of  than  you  and  I  have  talked  about  this  morn 
ing." 

"  I  don't  want  to  think  of  'em,  then.  We  've 
gone  plenty  high  enough  f'r  me.  Don't  you  let 
Parson  Marshall  come  'round  here !  'Cause  ef 
he  does,  I  won't  see  him." 

"  You  '11  let  Mrs.  Marshall  come,  won't  you  1 " 
asked  the  lawyer.  "  Or,  better  still,  Mrs.  Clark  ? 
She  '11  insist  on  coming  right  up,  I  warn  you, 
directly  I  tell  her  how  sick  you  are;  so  you 
might  as  well  make  up  your  mind  to  it.  Her 
chicken  soup  is  famous ;  and  you  ought  to  see 
her  take  hold  of  this  room  and  fix  things  up  and 
make  you  comfortable." 


"IN   THE  MIDST   OF  LIFE"  25 

Old  Bowen  smiled. 

"  She  's  welcome,"  he  said.  "  She  won't  hev 
t'  come  but  onct,  I  guess.  Doctor  said  he  'd 
look  in  ag'in,  airly  in  th'  afternoon.  I  guess 
th'  airlier  th'  better." 

Something  in  his  tone  and  appearance  told 
Mr.  Clark  that  the  forebodings  were  well 
founded.  The  poor,  wizened  face  on  the  pil 
low  looked  so  pitifully  white  and  small  and 
yearning,  its  hard  lines  had  so  strangely  dis 
appeared  in  the  mysterious  approach  of  death, 
that  the  visitor  felt  the  pathos  of  the  desolate 
old  man's  fruitless,  bitter  life  as  he  had  never 
imagined  it  before. 

"You  must  n't  take  things  too  hard,  Mr. 
Bowen,"  he  said  ineffectually. 

The  other  gave  a  tart  laugh. 

"Things?"  he  repeated.  "Y'  mean  dyin'? 
Pooh !  It  don't  matter  any  t'  me.  Dyin'  's  jest 
as  good  as  livin'.  Only  I  find  I  hate  t'  come  t' 
die  without  knowin'  what  I  've  lived  fur." 

"I  suppose  those  things  have  to  be  found 
out  by  us  earlier  in  life,  if  they  're  to  be  found 
out  at  all." 

"  Y'  're  right,  I  guess.  Anyway,  y'  don't  find 
'em  out  at  th'  end.  I  've  kep'  ye  long  enough, 
Mr.  Clark." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  returned  the  lawyer,  ear 
nestly,  as  he  rose.  "  I  feel  as  if  I  had  n't  said 
the  things  I  ought  to ;  as  if  I  had  n't  shown  you 


26  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

any  soft  side,  somehow.  And  yet  I  've  felt  one ; 
and  all  the  world  would,  Mr.  Bowen,  seeing  you 
in  this  way.  There  's  more  sympathy  in  life 
than  you  think  for,  depend  upon  it." 

The  other  grunted. 

"What  you  've  said  is  all  right,"  he  rejoined. 
"  There  's  th'  will  t'  testify  to  it.  PVaps  it  's 
jest  as  well  thet  way  as  ef  I  'd  favored  th'  free 
thinkers  or  sonitthin'.  Jest  you  see  thet  it  's 
well  bestowed.  I  don't  want  tbet  money  t'  go 
till  y'  're  perf'c'ly  sartin  sure  it 's  goin'  right, — 
all  three  of  ye.  Y'  understand  1 " 

Mr.  Clark  nodded. 

"  Ef  I  'm  goin'  in  f  r  doin'  good  at  this  late 
hour,  as  I  said,  I  want  it  t'  be  some  partic'lar 
good, — somethin'  special;  not  jest  books  f'r  th' 
lib'ary  an'  sech.  You  mind,  now." 

He  was  evidently  getting  wearied,  and  the 
lawyer,  after  arranging  two  or  three  minor 
comforts,  closing  a  shutter  to  screen  him  from 
the  glare,  and  cautioning  Peter,  as  he  came 
down-stairs,  to  keep  a  close  watch  by  the  sick 
room,  left  for  his  home,  where  his  report  speedily 
sent  his  good  wife,  accompanied  by  Mrs.  Mar 
shall,  to  old  Bowen's  bedside. 


II 

DE   MOKTUIS 

MR.  CLARK  accomplished  little  office-work 
for  the  rest  of  the  day.  He  found  too 
much  to  think  of.  He  had  been  more  stirred 
up  by  the  morning's  strange  interview  than 
he  had  realized,  and  it  was  not  easy  to  readjust 
himself  to  commonplace  conditions.  The  words 
and  thoughts  of  the  discussion  kept  presenting 
themselves  again  and  again  before  his  mind. 
He  found  himself  querying  how  far  he  was 
right  in  his  views  of  life,  and  how  far  old 
Bowen  might  be  right.  He  found  Bowen's 
question,  as  to  what  value  the  latter's  life  had 
had  for  him,  more  difficult  to  settle  each  time 
it  raised  itself.  And,  finally,  the  subject  of 
the  .legacy  kept  persistently  obtruding  itself, 
not  precisely  as  a  matter  for  immediate  settle 
ment,  but  as  one  whose  solution  might  prove 
to  be  even  more  difficult  than  he  had  appre 
hended. 

"  An  unmistakably  worthy  object,"  he  mused. 
"Will  it  be  so  simple?     For  five  dollars,  yes. 

27 


28  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

For  five  thousand  in  a  lump !— well,  I  'm  not  so 
sure." 

He  ran  over  in  his  mind  various  possible 
worthy  uses  for  the  sum,  and  rejected  each 
in  turn.  Then  his  thoughts  reverted  anew 
to  the  eccentric  testator,  and  he  alternately 
hardened  and  softened  as  he  thought  of  the 
somber  old  man  dying  up  there  in  that  lonely, 
neglected  house.  "  I  can't  call  it  '  home,' "  he 
reflected  idly;  "for  Bowen  has  never  had  a 
home,  in  that  sense,  and  has  n't  known  any 
thing  of  one."  Had  he  been  too  severe  I  What 
nature  would  his  own  have  been  at  his  age  of 
fifty  if  he  had  not  known  the  home  which  was 
so  dear,  so  vital,  a  part  of  his  existence  ?  How 
could  cheerfulness  survive  without  cheer  ?  How 
could  you  understand,  or  value,  or  give  love, 
never  having  experienced  it!  At  least,  the  old 
hermit  farmer  had  never  harmed  any  one.  No 
man  lived  who  bore  him  a  personal  grudge. 
That  was  much,  surely.  More  might  be  asked ; 
but  could  it  be  demanded  I 

And  yet  at  the  end,  as  unswervingly  as  in 
the  morning,  he  knew  that  it  could,  and  he 
abated  no  word  that  he  had  uttered. 

About  four  o'clock  Mrs.  Clark  returned.  She 
came  around  by  the  front  path  to  the  office  door. 
Her  husband  knew,  before  he  asked,  the  sig 
nificance  of  her  sobered  face. 

"When?"  he  asked  quietly. 


DE   MORTUIS  29 

"About  an  hour  ago.  There  was  no  pain. 
He  was  unconscious." 

"  Was  Peter  by  to  help  you  ? " 

"Yes." 

Mr.  Clark  was  feeling  the  startled  sensation 
we  all  have  when  a  death,  however  surely  ex 
pected,  actually  takes  place. 

"  I  thought  it  might  not  be  so  soon,"  he  said 
vaguely. 

"Poor  old  man,"  said  Mrs.  Clark,  with  her 
broad,  forgiving  sympathy.  "  It 's  a  death  more 
to  be  sorrowed  over,  perhaps,  than  many  an 
other  we  've  seen." 

"  Yes.    An  abstract  kind  of  sorrow." 

"But  just  as  real;  maybe  more  real,  be 
cause  it 's  wider,  somehow.  It 's  a  sort  of  sor 
row  for  an — an  idea,  rather  than — as  well  as — 
a  person."  I 

"I  know  what  you  mean,  Annie,"  he  said 
softly. 

"Please  step  around  and  have  Tom  Secor 
drive  up  right  away,  Samuel,"  she  said.  "  He  '11 
take  up  whatever 's  necessary ;  and  you  tell  him 
the  coffin  should  be  ready  by  day  after  to-mor 
row." 

"  Who  's  up  there  now  with  Peter  ? " 

"  Mrs.  Marshall  stayed ;  and  I  stopped  at  the 
parsonage  on  the  way  back,  so  Mr.  Marshall 's 
gone  up." 

"  Then  I  suppose  I  can't  do  anything,"  said 


30  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

the  lawyer.  He  had  risen,  and  now,  as  his  wife 
passed  on  silently  into  the  house,  he  went  out 
by  the  way  she  had  come,  and  up  the  street 
to  Secor's,  the  carpenter-undertaker's.  Secor, 
greatly  surprised  at  the  news,  promptly  left 
for  the  Bowen  house. 

Mr.  Clark  stood  irresolute  on  the  curb  as  the 
carpenter  drove  off.  He  felt  disinclined  to  go 
back  to  his  office.  His  footsteps  turned  in  the 
other  direction. 

"  I  '11  just  step  up  and  tell  Deacon  Bradbury," 
he  decided ;  and  he  moved  off  up  the  street  to 
the  deacon's  home,  a  well-located  farm  at  the 
edge  of  the  town. 

Mr.  Bradbury  was  out  in  the  fields,  but  his 
wife,  who  greeted  the  visitor  hospitably,  sent 
out  her  "help,"  'Mandy,  to  search  for  the 
farmer  and  bring  him  in.  Miss  Lorinda  Park, 
an  invalid  neighbor,  was  making  a  call. 

"  Set  down,  Mr.  Clark,"  said  Mrs.  Bradbury, 
cordially,  as  she  drew  forth  another  chair. 

"  You  always  have  comfortable  chairs  in  this 
house,  Mrs.  Bradbury,"  he  remarked  as  he  took 
the  seat,  reflecting  swiftly  on  the  contrasted 
lack  of  comfort  in  the  substitute  for  a  home 
he  had  that  morning  visited. 

"I  've  allers  held  thet  good  chairs  give  th' 
best  welcome,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Bradbury;  "an' 
every  one  o'  these  chairs  has  been  got,  at  one 
time  or  another,  with  thet  idee." 


BE  MORTUIS  31 

"  It  's  a  very  gracious  idea,  I  'm  sure,"  com 
mented  the  visitor,  with  a  pleased  feeling. 

"Jest  like  th'  Bradburys,  too,  ain't  it?"  put 
in  Miss  Lorinda. 

"  Exactly,"  he  assented  heartily. 

"  Oh,  I  don'  know  as  to  thet,"  said  Mrs.  Brad 
bury,  flushing  nevertheless  at  the  little  tribute. 
"Ef  people  will  come  t'  see  ye,"  she  added 
slyly,  "  of  course  y'  Ve  got  t'  seat  'em ;  an'  y' 
may  as  well  make  'em  comf  table  while  y'  're 
'bout  it." 

"That 's  a  wide  principle,"  smiled  Mr.  Clark, 
"  and  a  good  one." 

"  It  's  more  than  natur'  always  does,"  Miss 
Park  observed. 

The  lawyer  gave  a  slight  start  at  finding  this 
unlooked-for  renewal  of  the  morning's  topic. 
Miss  Park,  however,  laid  claim  to  being  a  phi 
losopher,  or  rather  a  philosophize!* ;  and  he  re 
membered  that  this  remark  was  merely  one  in 
her  favorite  vein. 

"Well,"  observed  Mrs.  Bradbury,  "mebbe 
aatur'  don't  b'lieve  in  easy-chairs  an'  rockin'- 
chairs  as  much  as  we  do.  I  don't  say  she  ain't 
right." 

"  I  can't  see,"  returned  Miss  Lorinda,  fretfully, 
"  why  y'  're  any  better  f  r  hevin'  t'  set  in  a  hard 
chair  rather  'n  an  easy  one  when  y'r  day's  work 
is  done.  I  know.  I  've  hed  t'  set  in  a  hard 
one  most  o'  my  life." 


32  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

Miss  Park  had  long  had  an  incurable  spinal 
disease  which  gave  her  much  pain  and  com 
pelled  her  always  to  sit  bolt  upright  w^hen  she 
sat  at  all.  Rumor  had  it  that  her  ailment  was 
growing  worse  instead  of  better. 

The  others  looked  at  her  with  understanding 
sympathy. 

"  So  y'  hev,  poor  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Bradbury, 
"  an'  fur—" 

"  For  no  fault  of  hers  either,  was  it  ? "  put  in 
the  lawyer,  involuntarily.  He  was  himself  a 
little  astonished,  the  moment  the  words  were 
uttered.  Had  some  of  old  Bowen's  cynicism, 
exorcised  from  its  possessor,  taken  hold  on 
him? 

The  door  leading  in  from  the  kitchen  opened, 
and  Mr.  Bradbury  appeared,  large  and  hale, 
healthily  aglow  with  the  work  of  the  farm. 

"  How  d'  y'  do,  Miss  Lorindy  ? "  he  said  heart 
ily,  advancing.  "  How  are  ye,  Lawyer  Clark  ? " 
He  looked  from  one  to  the  other  and  then  to 
his  wife  with  humorous  suspicion. 

"  Makin'  y'r  will,  Martha  1 "  he  asked.  "  Call 
f'r  me  t'  be  another  witness!" 

Mr.  Clark  smiled,  but  gravely. 

"  I  did  call  about  a  will,  Mr.  Bradbury,"  he 
said ;  "  though  not  your  wife's." 

"Whose?" 

"  Simeon  Bowen's.    He  died  this  afternoon." 

His  hearers  gave  a  start. 


DE  MORTUIS  33 

"  Sim  Bo  wen  f  Y'  don't  say ! "  ejaculated  Miss 
Park;  while  husband  and  wife  uttered  a  sur 
prised  "  Sho !  "  almost  in  unison. 

"  He  had  a  stroke  early  this  morning.  I  was 
sent  for,  later  on.  Mrs.  Marshall  and  my  wife 
were  there  afterward." 

They  pressed  for  additional  details,  and  Mr 
Clark  described  events  more  fully. 

"  Sho  !  "  said  Mr.  Bradbury  again,  with  a  cer 
tain  large  sorrow  in  his  voice.  "  Now  thet  he 's 
dead,  a  body  feels  pity  f'r  him." 

"  It  's  astonishin'  how  much  kinder  it  allers 
makes  a  person  feel,"  commented  Mrs.  Brad 
bury.  "  He  did  n't  seem  t'  git  much  pity  while 
he  was  alive." 

"  He  did  n't  ask  for  it,"  interjected  Lawyer 
Clark,  dryly.  "And  the  world  does  n't  pity 
much  unless  it 's  encouraged  a  little." 

"  It  blames,  though,"  remarked  Miss  Park. 

"  Yes, — more  's  the  pity,  I  suppose.  The  old 
man  made  a  rather  strange  will." 

"  What  was  it  T  "  inquired  Mrs.  Bradbury. 

"  Well,"  said  the  lawyer,  reflectively,  "  there 's 
no  3ecret  about  ity  that  I  know  of.  It  concerns 
Mr.  Bradbury  somewhat,  and  I  may  as  well  let 
the  rest  of  you  hear  about  it,  too." 

"  Concerns  me ! "  queried  the  farmer,  incredu 
lously. 

"  Yes ;  "  and  Mr.  Clark  proceeded  to  relate  the 
circumstances  of  the  legacy.  He  touched  but 


34  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

little  on  the  morning's  interview,  though  some 
mention  of  it  and  its  trend  was  necessary  in 
order  to  show  any  color  at  all  for  the  crabbed 
old  recluse's  unexpected  philanthropy. 

"Well,  I  swan!"  was  Mr.  Bradbury's  aston 
ished  comment. 

"I  thought  you  would,"  said  the  lawyer, 
unable  to  repress  a  smile.  "I  find  I  do  my 
self." 

"What  d'  y'  think  of  it?"  questioned  the 
farmer. 

"  I  don't  quite  know.  I  have  n't  shaken  down 
yet,  I  guess.  I  rather  wanted  to  see  what  you 
thought  of  it  yourself." 

The  farmer  passed  his  hand  thoughtfully 
through  his  heavy  iron-gray  hair,  and  slowly 
sought  a  seat  in  his  large  cane  rocker. 

"  Five  thousand  dollars,  eh  I "  he  said. 

"  In  one  lump,  too,"  added  his  wife. 

"  Yes,"  returned  the  lawyer ;  "  and  no  church 
can  come  in." 

"  It  's  too  big,"  pronounced  Mr.  Bradbury, 
positively. 

"  That 's  what  I  've  been  fearing.  Not  that 
you  can't  give  away  five  thousand  dollars  easily 
enough,  if  you  try.  But  to  give  it  where  it  's 
sure  to  do  five  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  good, 
—that 's  another  matter." 

"Yes,  it  is,"  said  the  farmer.  "Now,  you 
take  th'  Watkins  family.  They  're  our  town 


DE   MOETUIS  35 

poor,  I  s'pose,  as  much  as  anybody  in  Felton. 
Of  course  there  's  one  or  two  other  families 
like  'em,  but  I  'm  just  considerin'  them  as  an 
example.  Ef  we  give  Sneezer  Watkins  five 
thousand  dollars, — " 

"  Lawks !  "  interjected  Miss  Lorinda,  with 
an  irrepressible  laugh.  "  He  'd  spend  half  in 
t'bacco  an'  cider,  an'  th'  other  half  in  ribbons 
f  r  th'  children,  in  two  days." 

"'Bout  like  thet,"  assented  Mr.  Bradbury. 
"  No  way  o'  puttin'  restrictions  on  it  when  it 's 
given  ?  " 

"No,"  Mr.  Clark  said.  "I  suggested  that 
while  I  was  writing  out  the  will;  but  he 
would  n't  have  it.  I  think  he  rather  foresaw 
that  we  might  find  some  difficulties,  and  en 
joyed  the  notion.  I  've  thought,  since,  that  it 
may  have  been  an  idea  of  his  to  show  me  and  the 
rest  of  us  that  perhaps — well,  never  mind  about 
that.  When  it  goes,  it 's  to  go  unconditionally." 

"When  it  goes,"  repeated  Mr.  Bradbury, 
musingly.  "A  year,  you  said?  There  's  no 
hurry,  then?" 

"No;  there  's  no  hurry.  At  the  same  time, 
we  've  got  to  get  accustomed  to  keeping  our 
eyes  open." 

"  There 's  one  thing,"  Miss  Park  put  in,  with  a 
certain  admiration.  "Th'  ol'  man  picked  out 
th'  very  best  an'  uprightest  committee  y'  c'd 
find  in  this  town — or  any  other  town."  t 


36  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

"  Thet  's  so,  every  word  of  it,"  agreed  Mrs. 
Bradbury,  heartily,  "ef  my  husband  is  on 
it." 

The  farmer's  thoughts  wandered  back  to  the 
dead  man  himself. 

"Hard  kind  o'  life  he  's  hed,  ain't  it?  Not 
thet  he  was  pinched,  as  fur 's  money  went,  sence 
he  c'd  leave  thet  much.  But  it  was  a  narrer 
'nough  life  in  other  ways." 

"Narrow  and  juiceless  and  a  failure  all 
around,  one  would  say,"  corroborated  Mr.  Clark. 

"  What  right  've  any  of  us  got  t'  label  it.  a 
failure  ? "  demanded  Miss  Lorinda.  "  We  don't 
know  all  its  ins  an'  outs." 

"  That 's  perfectly  true,"  the  lawyer  agreed. 

"Before  y'  c'n  say  any  life  's  a  failure,"  she 
went  on,  "y'  've  got  t'  know  all  about  it,  an' 
jest  what  it  hed  t'  contend  with.  An'  y'  can't 
tell  thet  'bout  any  one  else.  Sim  Bowen  may  've 
j edged  his  life  t'  be  a  failure ;  we  can't." 

"  Mebbe,"  added  Mrs.  Bradbury,  "  he  did  an' 
got  more  good  than  we  think." 

"  We  '11  hope  so,"  rejoined  the  lawyer,  skep 
tically  yet  not  uiisympathetically. 

Mr.  Bradbury  was  deep  in  reflection. 

"  You  an'  I  an'  Mr.  Pickering  've  got  a  hard 
job  t'  do  right,  Mr.  Clark,"  he  said  presently. 

•"  Yes ;  I  realized  that  right  away." 

"  I  s'pose  we  '11  git  applications  thick  on  all 
eldest 


DE  MORTUIS  37 

"  Why,  Nathan !  People  ain't  beggars  here," 
said  his  wife,  reproachfully. 

"  Oh,  people  won't  ask.  They  may  hint,  but 
they  won't  ask.  They  '11  git  others  t'  ask  fur 
'em.  But  I  did  n't  mean  people ;  I  was  thinkin' 
of  societies  an'  town  committees  an'  sech." 

"  We  must  talk  all  that  over.  What  do  you 
say  to  walking  up  to  Mr.  Pickering's  with  me, 
Mr.  Bradbury  ?  Then  I  thought  we  'd  all  three 
go  up  to  Bo  wen's,  just  to  see  if  we  can  be  of 
any  use." 

"  A  good  idee,"  replied  the  farmer,  promptly. 
"  I  '11  jest  go  out  an'  tell  Abner  'bout  thet  seedin' 
an'  then  come  back  an'  tidy  up  a  leetle,  an'  we  '11 
go  right  off." 

Mr.  Bradbury  speedily  reappeared,  and  the 
two  men  left  the  house. 

"Well,  I  guess  I  '11  be  goin',  too,"  said  Miss 
Park,  who  was  burning  to  communicate  the 
news  to  various  intimate  friends.  "  I  '11  bring 
ye  thet  receipt  fust  thing  in  th'  mornin',  Mrs. 
Bradbury;  an'  don't  f'rgit  t'  put  th'  yelks  in 
after  th'  batter  's  mixed,  not  b'fore." 

Miss  Lorinda  made  her  way  painfully  but 
unswervingly  down  the  street  to  Reed  &  Kem- 
ble's  store.  She  looked  disappointed  as  she 
entered  and  perceived  that  there  were  no  cus 
tomers  at  the  time. 

"No,  I  did  n't  want  any  thin'  this  afternoon, 
Enos,"  she  said.  "I  'm  goin'  on  'round  t'  th' 


38  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

Kembles'.  I  jest  looked  in  t'  say  ol'  Bowen  's 
dead.  Died  this  afternoon.  I  only  jest  heared. 
P'ralysis.  Took  this  mornin'  airly."  Miss  Park 
shot  out  one  detail  after  the  other  as  she  turned 
from  the  door,  and  moving  across  the  front 
wooden  platform,  stepped  off  upon  the  side 
walk.  She  walked  on,  leaving  the  other  to 
digest  the  news  at  his  leisure.  Arrived  at 
the  Kembles'  house,  a  little  farther  on,  in  the 
main  street,  she  overtook  at  the  gate  Mr.  Kem- 
ble  himself,  who,  it  being  a  slack  afternoon  for 
business,  was  returning  home.  Mr.  Kemble 
was  a  small  man  with  a  gray  mustache  and  a 
reputation  as  a  wag.  The  latter  did  not  con 
flict  with  a  reputation  for  being  fully  as  close 
in  money  matters  as  his  partner,  Mr.  Reed. 

"Out  scatterin'  seeds  o'  kindness,  as  usual, 
Miss  Lorindy?"  he  asked,  not  without  covert 
reference  to  the  lady's  fondness  for  dissemi 
nating  news  and  discussing  character-studies. 
"Come  right  in  an'  scatter  some  here.  Don't 
know  as  they  '11  grow  on  our  settin'-room  car 
pet;  though  it  gits  pretty  dusty,  the  children 
play  in  there  so  much." 

There  was  a  large  family  of  Kembles,  and 
they  all  seemed  to  be  in  the  sitting-room  as  the 
two  entered.  Mrs.  Kemble  banished  the  chil 
dren,  all  save  two  partly  grown-up  daughters, 
and  the  visitor  lost  little  time  in  bringing  out 
her  news. 


DE  MOETUIS  39 

Her  hearers,  including  Miss  Harvey,  Mrs. 
Kemble's  sister,  appeared  to  feel  far  more  in 
terest  in  the  subject  of  the  legacy  than  concern 
for  the  old  man's  death. 

"  Who  on  airth  '11  it  go  to  1 "  speculated  Mrs. 
Kemble,  a  trim,  vigorous,  quick  little  woman 
who  looked  at  one  sharply,  wore  glasses  before 
her  keen,  inquiring  eyes,  and  always  gave  an 
impression  of  one  alert  to  question  advances 
and  repel  boarders. 

"  Well,  there  's  me,"  announced  Mr.  Kemble, 
striking  an  attitude. 

His  two  young  daughters  giggled  audibly  at 
this. 

"  Pooh !  you ! "  retorted  his  wife.  "  He  said 
a  worthy  object." 

"Well,  there  's  you,  then.  It  '11  be  all  in  th' 
fam'ly." 

"  You  quit  foolin',  George  Kemble.  I  'm  won- 
derin'  ef  I  could  n't  git  it  t'  go  t'  th'  Dorcas 
S'ciety."  Mrs.  Kemble  was  president  of  this 
society,  which  was  her  pet.  At  the  same  time, 
it  was  a  considerable  drain  upon  her  stock  of 
half-used  clothes,  cuttings,  and  useful  odds  and 
ends,  as  well  as  on  the  similar  stocks  of  other 
members;  and  the  thought  came  to  her  at  once 
that  such  a  legacy  would  effectually  put  a  stop 
to  such  drains  for  all  time. 

"Charity  begins  at  home,"  observed  her 
spouse,  sententiously. 


40  OLD  BOWEN'S   LEGACY 

"  I  don't  know  why  our  s'ciety  should  n't  git 
it,"  went  on  Mrs.  Kemble,  musingly,  much  at 
tracted  by  the  idea.  "  I  b'lieve  I  '11  see  Lawyer 
Clark  'bout  it  t'-morrow." 

"  No  hurry,"  put  in  Miss  Lorinda.  "  There  's 
a  year  f'r  'em  t'  decide  in." 

"Th'  sooner  th'  better,  I  think,"  the  other 
responded,  with  decision.  "  We  need  th'  money 
right  away." 

Miss  Harvey  interposed. 

"  Letitia,"  she  said  severely,  "  I  must  say  I  'm 
surprised  thet  y'  f'rgit  'bout  church  int'rests. 
Now,  our  church — " 

"Oh,  it  can't  go  t'  any  church,"  hastily 
explained  the  visitor,  who  had  forgotten  to 
elucidate  this  point. 

"Can't?"  echoed  Miss  Harvey.  She  was 
taken  aback.  "Well,  then,  th'  Sunday-school. 
I  do  say,  I  think  it 's  a  buroin'  shame  thet — " 

"  No,  n'r  Sunday-school.  Nothin'  in  connec 
tion  with  a  church." 

"  I  d'clare !  "  remonstrated  Miss  Harvey.  "  Of 
all  wrong  an'  foolish  restrictions !  Well, 
there  's  poor  Tom  Henry,  thet  was  hurt  last 
week  workin'  on  th'  pike.  He  's  laid  up  f'r  six 
months,  I  hear.  An'  I  must  say  I  think  it  's 
jest  sinful,  th'  way  th'  neighbors  've  acted  so 
callous  'bout  it.  Mrs.  Henry  was  tellin'  me 
how — " 

"  Tom  was  hurt  through  his  own  fault,  sister," 


DE   MORTUIS  41 

spoke  up  Mrs.  Kemble,  sharply ;  "  an',  anyway, 
th'  neighbors  've  done  a  hull  lot  f'r  him.  His 
wife  ain't  one  t'  acknowledge  it,  an'  never  was, 
an'  I  sh'd  think  y'  'd  know  her  better." 

"Well,  there  he  lies  with  his  leg  broke,"  re 
torted  Miss  Harvey,  who  was  always  in  a  state 
of  indignation  with  some  one  or  something; 
"  an'  how  y'  c'n  talk  o'  th'  Dorcas,  with  him  lyin' 
there,  likely  t'  want,  is  more  'n  I  c'n  see." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Mr.  Kemble,  ironically ;  "any 
dead-beat  ol'  good-f  r-nothin'  's  better  'n  Letty's 
foolish  s'ciety,  ain't  it,  Sophrony!  Y'  '11  be 
votin'  f'r  Garrett  Coe  next ;  I  guess  he  's  'bout 
th'  ugliest-tempered  brute  in  town,  an'  I  hear 
his  front  fence  is  out  o'  repair." 

There  was  a  general  laugh  at  this,  Miss  Har 
vey  alone  not  relaxing  her  face. 

"  I  would  n't,  neither,"  she  asseverated.  "  An' 
it  doos  seem  t'  me  y'  've  no  call  t'  say  sech  things, 
George.  I  'm  goin'  t'  talk  t'  Deac'n  Bradbury 
'bout  Tom  Henry,  fust  chance  I  git." 

"  All  right,"  agreed  her  brother-in-law,  cheer 
fully;  "an'  Letty  '11  see  Lawyer  Clark  'bout  th' 
Dorcas ;  an'  I  '11  buttonhole  Mr.  Pickering  'bout 
bestowin'  th'  money  on  me.  We  'd  ought  t'  do 
somethin'  with  it,  b'tween  us  all." 

Miss  Lorinda  rose.  They  had  all  forgotten 
so  much  as  to  mention  the  dead  man. 

"  I  must  be  movin'  on.  I  only  dropped  in  Fr 
a  minute  t'  see  how  y'  all  was ; "  and  she  took 


42  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

her  departure.  It  was  half -past  five,  but  being 
in  May  was  still  full  daylight. 

"  Goin'  on  supper-time,"  reflected  Miss  Park ; 
"  but  I  don'  know 's  I  want  t'  go  right  back  home 
yit.  Let  's  see:  who  c'n  I  peek  in  on  fr  jest 
a  few  minutes  I " 

She  moved  tentatively  along  the  street,  and 
presently,  seeing  the  postmaster  standing  at 
the  post-office  door,  crossed  the  street  to  him. 

"  Evenin',  Miss  Lorindy,"  he  called  out  pleas 
antly.  "  Come  f 'r  letters  1  There  ain't  any  fr 
ye  this  afternoon." 

"  No,  I  don'  know  's  I  come  f  r  thet,  exac'ly ; 
I  was  n't  expectin'  any.  Hev  y'  heared — " 

"  Hev  y'  heared  th'  news  ? "  he  asked,  unin 
tentionally  cutting  in.  "  Old  Sim  Bo  wen  's  jest 
died  of  p'ralysis,  up  at  his  place." 

"  How  'd  you  hear  1 "  she  asked,  disappointed. 

"  I  seen  Tom  Secor  drivin'  by  pretty  fast,  an 
hour  or  so  ago.  Harry  Hayes  said  he  turned 
up  th'  Bowen  road,  past  Wheeler's.  Then, 
awhile  ago,  Lawyer  Clark  an'  Deac'n  Bradbury 
went  by,  with  Mr.  Pickering,  an'  they  turned 
up  th'  same  way.  So  I  jest  sent  Harry  'round 
f  Mr.  Marshall's  f  ask." 

Miss  Park  was  thankful  that  there  remained 
yet  more  to  tell,  and  she  told  it. 

"  Poor  ol'  Bowen ! "  said  sympathetic  Mr.  Lea- 
vitt,  his  kindly,  anxious  face  showing  his  sin 
cerity  of  feeling.  "Did  n't  know  what  f  do 


DE  MOKTUIS  43 

with  his  money,  eh  I  Well,  he  'pears  t'  '  ve  tried 
t'  do  th'  best  he  could.  Makes  y'  feel  kind  o' 
sorry  f'r  him,  lonely  an'  all  thet,  don't  it,  eh?" 

"  Yes,  it  doos.  I  guess  he  'd  've  lived  his  life 
diff'rent  ef  he  hed  it  t'  do  over  ag'in." 

"We  all  would,  f'r  thet  matter,"  said  the 
postmaster,  with  a  slight  sigh.  "What  does 
Lawyer  Clark  say  they  '11  do  with  the  money  1 " 

"  He  don't  know,  so  fur." 

"  Ef  they  'd  use  it  t'  pay  f'r  a  free  d'livery," 
ruminated  Mr.  Leavitt,  "  I  don'  know  but  it  'd 
do  more  good  t'  most  than  in  other  ways.  ]Jow- 
ever,  't  ain't  f'r  me  t'  say.  Th'  fund  's  in  good 
hands.  By  th'  way,  there  's  another  piece  o' 
news.  Burt  Way 's  a-goin'  t'  marry  'Vinie  Coe." 

"  Thet  ain't  news,"  returned  Miss  Park,  scorn 
fully.  "  Leastways,  I  've  known  it  was  comin' 
f  r  a  month  or  more ;  an'  so  has  others." 

"  Well,  it  's  out  now.  It  '11  be  a  good  thing 
f  r  'Vinie." 

"  Yes." 

"  Might  use  th'  money  t'  make  'em  a  weddin' 
present ; "  and  Mr.  Leavitt's  eyes  twinkled  hu 
morously.  "Poor  Sim  Bo  wen!"  he  added. 
"Makes  me  feel  real  affected,  somehow.  We 
never  used  t'  see  much  of  him  down  here ;  he 
never  hed  any  letters  an'  never  came  nigh  th' 
office.  Mebbe  I  'd  ought  t'  've  looked  him  up 
more, — an'  thought  kinder  of  him." 

"  Ef  you  did  n't,  there  wa'  n't  much  cause  to," 


44  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

remarked  Miss  Park,  who  liked  Mr.  Leavitt,  as 
did  every  one  in  Felton.  "  Anyway,  it  's  too 
late  now.  Well,  I  must  git  home  t'  tea.  Good 
evenin'." 

She  passed  on  down  the  walk  to  her  own  little 
home,  where  she  stood  for  a  moment  thought 
fully  at  the  gate  before  going  in.  The  sun  was 
dropping  toward  the  horizon.  The  breeze  had 
subsided,  and  the  wide  street  lay  peaceful  in  the 
brilliant  western  light.  The  sun's  rays  struck 
gloriously  on  the  fresh,  new,  living  green  of  the 
elms  overhead,  and  irradiated  the  distant  east 
ern  hills  with  parting  splendor.  New  England 
folk  are  perhaps  little  prone  to  dwell  on  the 
beauties  of  sky  and  landscape  arid  nature's 
myriad  lavish  displays ;  yet  Miss  Lorinda  was 
vaguely  touched.  The  dying  day  seemed  trans 
figured,  as  the  memory  of  the  dead  man  was 
fast  becoming.  The  dull  metal  of  common 
place  morning  and  noon  was  burnished  into 
silver  and  gold. 

"  It  is  a  pretty  world,"  she  said  softly.  "  We 
don't  look  f'r  thet  side  often  enough.  Mebbe 
it 's  so  with  life  itself." 

She  turned  and  went  into  the  house. 


Ill 

A  WAITING  POLICY 

DURING-  the  weeks  immediately  following, 
the  three  trustees  and  executors  of  Mr. 
Bowen's  last  testament  found  themselves  a  more 
marked  center  of  interest  than  their  modest 
natures  were  accustomed  to.  The  will  was  pro 
bated,  and  the  three  duly  qualified  to  discharge 
their  duties.  No  difficulty  was  found  in  dispos 
ing  of  the  farm  property,  for  Hiram  Wheeler 
was  the  only  offering  purchaser,  and  he  stood 
stanchly  by  his  previous  offer,  and  took  over 
the  farm  for  two  thousand  dollars,  which  he 
paid  in  cash.  This  was  deposited  to  the  account 
of  the  estate  in  the  bank  at  Hingham,  making 
five  thousand  dollars  in  all,  besides  a  little  ac 
crued  interest.  The  old  man's  personal  effects 
were  very  scanty  and  of  little  value.  The  fur 
niture,  as  directed,  went  with  the  house,  and 
what  there  was  of  clothing  and  other  small  items 
had  been  explicitly  bequeathed,  at  Mr.  Clark's 
suggestion,  to  Peter  Merritt,  who  by  his  faith 
ful  and  uncomplaining  service,  and  his  long 

45 


46  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

endurance  of  his  employer's  whims  and  humors, 
was  assuredly  entitled  to  this  recompense.  He 
received,  also,  fifty  dollars  in  cash,  according  to 
the  terms  of  the  will. 

Mr.  Clark,  Mr.  Bradbury,  and  Mr.  Pickering 
had  been  unaware  that  there  existed  in  Felton 
so  many  meritorious  objects  of  charity,  so  many 
worthy  societies  and  small  philanthropic  agen 
cies,  so  many  individually  deserving  poor,  until 
they  entered  upon  their  new  trusteeship.  Ap 
plications  came  from  all  directions,  and  from 
the  most  unexpected  quarters.  They  came 
variously  in  words  of  boldness  or  of  modesty, 
with  confidence  or  with  hesitation,  directly  or 
by  means  of  roundabout  hints.  The  little  local 
charities  pressed  openly,  and  rightly  enough  so, 
through  their  most  prominent  representatives. 
The  individual  poor  had  friends  in  almost 
embarrassing  number,  who,  generally  without 
solicitation,  presented  their  respective  claims 
with  clearness  and  cogency.  The  lawyer  found 
it  necessary  to  keep  a  little  book  in  which  he 
carefully  entered  details  of  every  application 
as  soon  as  made,  reserving  a  space  under  each 
for  further  particulars.  The  town  council  was 
not  unrepresented  among  the  claimants,  and 
many  public-spirited  suggestions  were  made  for 
spending  the  money  on  such  a  public  object  as 
would  conduce  to  the  good  not  of  one  or  a  few 
but  of  all.  Each  of  the  trustees  found  his  time 


A  WAITING  POLICY  47 

perpetually  and  often  seriously  invaded.  They 
were  subjected  to  buttonholing  in  the  street  or 
in  the  stores,  to  domiciliary  visits,  to  invasions 
respectively  of  their  law,  farm  and  business 
work.  Mr.  Pickering,  a  well-to-do  quarry- 
owner,  who  was  frequently  compelled  to  be 
absent  from  Felton  for  long  or  short  periods 
on  business,  suffered  the  least  in  this  respect, 
though  he  was  by  no  means  unmolested.  It  is 
scarcely  the  truth,  perhaps,  to  say  that  any  of 
them  suffered;  for  they  were  all  men  of  large 
forbearance,  with  a  way  of  taking  life  as  easily 
as  was  practicable,  and  of  not  setting  that  wor 
rying,  disproportionate  value  on  detached  por 
tions  of  time  which  has  become  an  increasing 
characteristic  not  only  of  urban  but  of  rural 
populations.  They  were  each  blessed,  besides, 
with  a  tolerably  large  and  appreciative  sense  of 
humor,  and  this  threw  a  saving  light  on  many 
of  the  applications  and  interviews,  and  appre 
ciably  lessened  the  exactions  of  the  situation. 

Yet  among  all  the  suggestions  made,  none  of 
them  unworthy  and  most  of  them  undeniably 
the  reverse,  the  three  men  found  not  one  which 
seemed  adequately  to  fit  the  demands  of  the 
case.  Each  of  the  few  indigent  families  known 
in  the  town  seemed  far  more  likely  to  be  de 
moralized  than  benefited  by  the  sudden  recep 
tion  of  such  a  sum  as  that  at  the  trustees' 
disposal.  In  an  evenly  prosperous  Vermont 


48  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

village  in  the  seventies,  continued  or  chronic 
indigence  was  usually  traceable  to  continued  or 
chronic  fault  or  incapacity,  and  was  such  as  to 
be  much  more  wisely  relieved  or  regulated  by 
occasional  private  benefaction  than  by  a  sudden 
access  of  comparative  wealth.  There  were 
several  deserving  widows  in  the  town,  but  all, 
save  one  or  two,  were  sufficiently,  if  not  amply, 
provided  for,  and  the  exceptions  were  never 
allowed  seriously  to  want.  The  executors  could 
not  feel  that  they  would  be  serving  the  real 
purposes  of  their  trust  by  turning  over  the 
bank-account  to  any  one  of  these.  The  indi 
visibility  of  the  account  was  a  particular  source 
of  difficulty.  Had  it  been  permitted  to  break 
up  the  legacy  into  several  smaller  sums,  there 
would  have  been  little  trouble;  for  the  three 
knew  the  needs  of  the  townspeople  fairly  well, 
and  in  so  far  as  they  had  been  ignorant  they 
had  been  kept  fully  informed  since  their  ap 
pointment  as  trustees. 

In  the  matter  of  local  charitable  and  other 
organizations  they  experienced  similar  diffi 
culty.  Each  was  good;  but  in  the  first  place, 
none  was  preponderatingly  so,  and  in  the  sec 
ond  place,  each  was  already  kept  fairly  well 
equipped  with  the  small  funds  needed  for  its 
particular  work.  The  committee  reasoned  that 
such  an  endowment  given  to  any  selected  one 
among  them  would  not  only  foment  local  jeal- 


A  WAITING  POLICY  49 

ousies,  but  would  simply  allow  to  be  retained  in 
private  pockets  the  subscriptions  which  would 
otherwise  be  forthcoming.  Each  project  sub 
mitted  was  repeatedly  and  conscientiously  can 
vassed,  but  no  conclusion  emerged  so  clearly  as 
to  justify  assured  action. 

These,  be  it  understood,  were  merely  the  com 
mittee's  own  convictions.  They  may  not  have 
been  unimpeachably  wise  and  right ;  they  may 
have  been  based  on  an  underestimate  of  various 
elements  of  worth.  They  were,  however,  the 
reasonings  of  men  unquestionably  as  honest 
and  careful  as  could  be  found  in  any  New  Eng 
land  or  other  community;  and  they  were 
strengthened  by  the  fact  that  the  townspeople 
themselves  were  hopelessly  disunited  in  their 
advisory  verdict.  There  was  no  guiding  pre 
ponderance  of  view  with  respect  to  any  one  use 
for  the  fund,  which  might  serve  to  show  the  set 
of  popular  decision,  and  thus  perhaps  aid  the 
executors.  The  conflict  of  factions,  though 
friendly  and  void  of  rancor,  became,  in  fact, 
rather  more  than  less  strong  with  the  lapse  of 
the  weeks.  And  meanwhile  the  three  trustees, 
with  the  best  will  in  the  world,  did — nothing. 
However,  they  were  comfortably  aware  that 
there  was  time  remaining  as  well  as  interest 
accumulating. 

"Mr.  Clark,"  said  Mr.  Bradbury,  one  day, 
meeting  him,  "  let 's  you  an'  I  go  'round  t'  Miss 


50  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

Jewett's  an'  see  what  she  thinks  'bout  all  this. 
I  hev  n't  thought  t'  ask  her  when  we  've  met,  an' 
she  ain't  one  t'  volunteer  opinions  unless  she  's 
asked." 

"  Good  idea,"  said  the  lawyer,  readily.  "  We 
can  step  around  now,  if  you  like." 

Miss  Jewett  was  at  home,  having  just  finished 
a  rather  unusual  colloquy  with  her  faithful 
"  help,"  Ann  Mead.  Ann,  who  rarely  ventured 
out  of  her  own  domain,  the  little  kitchen,  had 
donned  a  clean  apron,  and  with  some  unwonted 
trepidation  had  approached  Miss  Jewett,  who 
was  knitting  in  the  "  middle  room." 

"What  is  it,  Ann?"  inquired  the  other,  in 
some  surprise.  "Anything  wrong  with  the 
baking?" 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it ;  it 's  come  out  splendid.  I 
wanted  t' — t'  speak  'bout  another  little  matter, 
Miss  Jewett." 

The  latter  wondered  what  it  could  be,  but 
held  her  peace  and  waited  for  Ann  to  speak. 

Ann  Mead,  who  was  a  strongly  built  and  not 
uncomely  woman  of  something  less  than  middle 
age,  hesitated  uneasily  before  speaking. 

"  It  's  'bout  Peter  Merritt,  y'  see,"  she  began 
bluntly,  at  length. 

"Peter  Merritt?" 

"  Yes.  He  's  asked  me  ef  I  'd  keep  comp'ny 
with  him." 

"  Peter  Merritt !   Why,  Ann,  how  surprising ! " 


A  WAITING  POLICY  51 

"  I  don'  know  's  it  's  so  very  surprisin',''  re 
turned  the  other,  bridling  a  little. 

"Oh,  I  did  n't  mean  that  way,"  said  Miss 
Jewett,  hastily,  perceiving  her  error.  "  I  mean, 
I  did  n't  know  Peter  thought  of  marrying." 

"  He  's  got  fifty  dollars  now,  b'sides  a  lot  o' 
clo'es  an'  things  of  ol'  Mr.  Bowen's;  an'  I  've 
got  a  little  money  saved  up  myself;  an'  he 
thought  we  c'd  git  a  small  place  somewheres  at 
th'  edge  o'  town, — mebbe  thet  empty  Robinson 
cottage, — an'  make  a  good  start  t'gether." 

Miss  Jewett  was  still  in  a  state  of  astonish 
ment  at  the  mere  idea  of  her  sober,  rather  ma 
ture  help  "  taking  up  "  with  well-meaning  but 
shambling  Peter  Merritt;  but  she  prudently 
withheld  further  expressions  of  surprise,  and 
quietly  asked: 

"What  did  you  tell  him!" 

"  Oh,  I  put  him  off.  I  hed  t'  know  what  you 
thought  about  it." 

"  If  you  mean  about  my  being  unwilling  to 
have  you  leave  me,  Ann,  or  anything  like  that, 
why,  you  know  of  course  I  would  n't  stand  in 
your  light  for  a  minute." 

"  No,  I  know  thet,  Miss  Jewett ;  an'  thank  ye, 
too.  But  what— what  d'  y'  think  o'  th'  idee  I " 

Miss  Jewett  paused  a  moment. 

"  Do  you  want  I  should  say  just  what  I  think, 
Ann  I "  she  asked.  "  Because  if  I  say  at  all,  I 
have  to  do  that ;  it 's  my  way." 


62  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

"  Oh,  I  want  thet,  Miss  Jewett." 

Miss  Jewett  looked  directly,  kindly,  steadily 
into  the  other's  eyes.  After  a  pause,  she  said 
slowly,  almost  solemnly : 

"  I  believe  in  marriage,  Ann.  I  believe  it  was 
divinely  ordained  and  is  daily  blessed.  There 's 
nothing  sweeter  or  more  precious  on  this  earth." 

She  was  silent  an  instant,  then  went  on : 

"I  was  near  once  to  having  it.  We  failed  of 
it  through— through  Providence,  with  no  fault 
or  blame  on  either  side.  It  's  long  past  now, 
but  I  like  to  live  with  the  memory.  You 
must  n't  ever  speak  of  this,  Ann,  for  it 's  not 
for  people  to  know  and  talk  over.  But  I  'm 
willing  you  should  know  of  it  now,  so  as  you 
can  see  that  I  know  how  to  value  what  you 
speak  of." 

"  Yes,  'm,"  said  the  other,  touched  and  at 
tentive. 

"But  unless  it  's  a  true  marriage,  it  's  an 
untrue  one;  unless  it  's  a  happy  one,  it  's  an 
unhappy  one ;  unless  it 's  a  fit  one,  it 's  an  unfit 
one.  That  's  my  observation, — and  I  've  been 
observing  all  my  life." 

"  I  calc'late  thet 's  so,  Miss  Jewett." 

"It  is  so,  Ann.  And  I  never  was  one  who 
believed  it  was  every  woman's  destiny.  If  a 
woman  does  n't  marry,  it  does  n't  always  fol 
low  that  she  's  missed  the  best  of  life, — not  a 
bit  of  it." 


A  WAITING  POLICY  53 

Miss  Jewett  spoke  with  energy,  adding : 

"  I  can  say  this  freely  enough,  because  I  feel 
that  I  did  miss  the  best  of  it.  But  there  are  lots 
of  women  who  are  safer  and  happier  single,  no 
matter  who  wants  them.  And  there  are  others 
who  never  may  meet  a  man  really  adapted  to 
them  or  suited  to  make  them  happy,  the  way 
true  marriage  ought  to ;  and  I  think  they  're 
better  single,  too." 

" How  's  a  body  to  tell?"  objected  the  help. 

"You  can't,  always.  Perhaps  you  can't  al 
most  ever.  There  's  an  l  unknown  quantity '  in 
everything.  The  more  need  for  caution,  say 
I ;  not  the  less  need." 

"  Well,  'bout  Peter  an'  me,  f'r  instance  1 " 

"  Sometimes  an  outsider  can  see  better  than 
an  insider,"  Miss  Jewett  rejoined.  "  You  said 
for  me  to  say  just  what  I  think.  I  think  you  '11 
be  vastly  happier  single  than  with  Peter 
Merritt." 

Ann  was  not  offended,— on  the  contrary,  she 
seemed  rather  relieved;  but  she  naturally  in 
quired  : 

"Why?" 

"  Peter  and  you  have  n't  a  thing  in  common. 
Peter  means  well,  and  is  true  and  honest  and 
all  that;  but  he  has  n't  the  qualities  of  a  hus 
band  for  a  careful,  independent,  thrifty  person 
like  you.  I  would  n't  abuse  Peter  for  the  world, 
and  I  like  him  in  his  way;  but  you  could  n't 


54  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

possibly  picture  him  as  the  head  of  a  household, 
—say  of  your  household.  And  fifty  dollars  is  n't 
really  enough  to  set  up  housekeeping  on." 

"  There  's  more." 

"Not  enough  more, — certainly  not  enough 
with  an  easy-going  lad  like  Peter.  I  call  him 
a  lad,  for  he  does  seem  like  one,  really." 

"  Peter  's  twenty-eight,  he  told  me." 

"And  you  're  ten  years  older.  I  think  the 
fact  is,  Ann,  that  you  don't  care  for  Peter  in 
reality, — not  in  that  way ;  and  I  don't  believe  he 
has  the  nature  really  to  care  for  you.  But  I 
suppose  the  thought  of  marrying  comes  to  every 
one  in  a  lifetime  at  least  once;  generally  a 
good  deal  oftener,  I  dare  say.  And  Peter  got 
to  toying  with  the  idea  of  a  home  and  a  wife, 
the  minute  he  got  his  little  windfall." 

Miss  Jewett  was  not  attempting  to  turn  the 
other's  thoughts  decisively  by  one  single  dis 
cussion,  but  merely  to  put  before  her  certain 
grave  things  to  consider,  knowing  that  earnest, 
careful-thinking  Ann  would  give  them  full  con 
sideration.  Her  "help"  had  originally  been 
taken  from  a  foundling  asylum, — of  course  in 
the  days  before  Miss  Jewett  kept  single  house,— 
and  she  had  never  known  any  other  condition 
than  this  of  household  assistant.  But  such  a 
position,  in  a  New  England  town  like  Felton, 
was  one  in  which  the  feeling  of  dependence  or 
servitorship  bore  very  lightly,  and  was  often  in 


A  WAITING  POLICY  65 

great  part  supplanted  by  that  of  companion 
ship.  Ann  never  transgressed  the  limits  of  her 
"place,"  but  that  place  had  for  two  decades 
brought  her  into  a  certain  friendly  contact  with 
those  whom  she  "  helped,"  such  as  to  foster  a 
self-respecting  personality,  and  to  cultivate  and 
encourage  in  her  the  traits  which  she  admired 
in  them.  The  old  New  England  system  of  "  help  " 
was  one  that  might  be,  and  sometimes  was, 
woefully  abused  in  the  underpayment  and  over 
driving  of  awkward,  self-defenseless  girls  who 
were  virtually  remediless  apprentices;  but  it 
was  also  capable  of  producing  very  good  re 
sults,  and  in  such  cases  did  as  much  toward 
wisely  and  helpfully  solving  the  always  diffi 
cult  problem  of  domestic  service  as  any  method 
yet  devised. 

Mistress  and  maid  (if  the  terms  are  justly 
applicable)  talked  a  little  further  regarding 
Peter's  marriage  proposition,  and  Ann  returned 
to  the  kitchen  to  think  over  the  other's  views 
at  leisure. 

Miss  Jewett  sat  and  ruminated  after  the 
other  had  gone. 

"'Marrying  and  giving  in  marriage,'"  she 
mused.  "  How  the  thought  goes  everywhere ! 
A  life  alone  seems  a  life  aloof.  Is  it,  I  wonder  ? 
Why  need  it  be !  Yet  here  's  my  sensible  Ann 
willing  to  seriously  consider  taking  up  with  a 
poor,  vacant  lout  of  a  boy  like  Peter  Merritt. 


56  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

And  there  's  Peter  fancying  lie  wants  Ann, 
who  's  more  like  his  mother  than  his  wife,  and 
who  'd  be  stirring  up  his  shiftless  ways  in  a 
manner  to  make  him  long  even  for  old  Bowen 
before  a  year  's  out." 

Her  knitting  lay  neglected  in  her  lap,  and  her 
thoughts  wandered  back  to  another  and  more 
personal  theme,  while  her  face  slowly  grew 
sad. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Mr.  Clark  and  Mr. 
Bradbury  approached  the  house.  Ann  let  them 
into  the  little  parlor,  and  Miss  Jewett,  entering, 
greeted  them  with  composure  and  cordiality. 

"  I  s'pose  y'  're  s'prised  t'  see  us  payin'  a  reg'- 
lar  call  this  way,"  began  Mr.  Bradbury,  with  a 
twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"I  don't  mind  being  surprised  once  in  a  while," 
smiled  their  hostess. 

"  We  jest  thought  we  'd  drop  in  an'  talk  with 
ye  a  leetle  'bout  this  money  we  've  got  t'  dis 
pose  of." 

Miss  Jewett  listened  sympathetically,  and  Mr. 
Bradbury  unfolded  their  perplexities,  the  lawyer 
adding  an  occasional  word. 

"  Of  course  you  knew  it  pretty  much  all 
before,  Miss  Jewett,"  added  Mr.  Clark. 

"  Yes,  I  knew  you  had  a  good  many  alterna 
tives.  I  suppose  it 's  natural.  It  must  be  hard 
to  know  what 's  best,  as  you  say." 

"  The  reason  we  thought  we  'd  come  and  talk 


A  WAITING  POLICY  57 

with  you,"  said  Mr.  Clark,  "  is  because  you  're 
about  the  only  person  who  has  n't  come  to  talk 
with  us.  And,  besides,  I  think  all  of  us  set  a 
good  deal  of  store  by  your  views.  We  want  to 
get  all  the  light  we  can." 

"That  's  very  natural;  but  I  'm  afraid  I 
have  n't  any  views  that  would  be  of  special 
help." 

"  Well,  ef  y'  hev  any  at  all,  we  '11  add  'em  t' 
our  collection,"  remarked  Mr.  Bradbury,  humor 
ously  ;  "  an'  give  'em  a  place  of  honor,  too." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  with  mock  gravity ; 
"  but  if  I  have  any  views  they  're  chiefly  nega 
tive  ones." 

"How  d'  y'  mean?" 

"  If  you  ask  me,  I  'd  simply  advise  waiting." 

"Waitin',  eh?" 

"  Yes.  You  have  plenty  of  time.  Now  some 
things  I  believe  in  working  out  and  settling; 
but  other  things,  I  find,  are  very  apt  to  settle 
themselves  if  you  let  'em  alone." 

"  How  're  y'  goin'  t'  know  which  is  which  ? " 

"  If  we  knew  that,  we  'd  know  a  good  deal 
more  about  life  than  we  do.  Of  course  it  's 
principally  guesswork.  I  was  only  giving  my 
guess, — that  this  is  one  of  the  things  that  can 
be  let  alone  for  a  while." 

"What  makes  you  think  so?"  asked  Mr. 
Clark. 

"Nothing  particular.     It  is  n't  a  presenti- 


68  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

ment,  for  I  never  have  any.  It 's  just  my  sense 
of  it." 

"  Your  sense  is  gen'rally  common  sense,"  re 
marked  the  deacon.  "As  it  happens,  we  've 
been  comin'  t'  think  'bout  th'  same  way  our 
selves." 

"I  've  only  the  view  of  an  outsider,"  Miss 
Jewett  said.  "  But  if  you  ask  me,  I  should  say, 
leave  it  to  take  care  of  itself  for  the  present. 
If  it  does  n't,  later  on,  then  you  can  figure  over 
it  some  more.  There 's  a  lot  gained,  sometimes, 
by  knowing  when  not  to  prod  a  thing— or  a 
person,  either." 

"  I  think  that 's  so,  Miss  Jewett,"  agreed  the 
lawyer.  "  Things  happen." 

"Things  are  always  happening,"  returned 
Miss  Jewett,  with  emphasis.  "You  take  this 
quiet  little  town,  and  count  back  on  the  things 
that  have  happened  in  it,  say  just  within  a  year, 
not  to  speak  of  the  long  years  you  and  I  and  all 
of  us  have  known  it.  There 's  a  dozen  histories 
that  could  be  written  every  twelve  months  right 
on  this  main  street  of  Felton.  Yes,  and  they  'd 
make  as  good  reading  and  teach  full  as  much 
as  any  history  in  the  village  library,  if  we  only 
knew  how  to  write  'em  and  how  to  study  'em. 
And  there 's  history  ahead,  the  same  as  behind." 

Mr.  Clark  was  singularly  struck  with  this 
novel  summarizing  of  their  village  life,  and  felt 
its  truth  instantly. 


A  WAITING  POLICY  59 

"  Things  do  happen  here,  when  y'  think  of  it," 
remarked  Mr.  Bradbury,  who  had  been  mentally 
running  over  village  chronicles  since  Miss  Jew- 
ett  had  spoken. 

"Yes,"  assented  she;  "it  's  a  world  of  hap 
penings  ;  and  every  place,  little  or  big,  gets  its 
share." 


IV 


THE   TOILERS 

COE'S  farmstead  was  rather 
unfavorably  situated  on  a  northerly  slope 
of  ground  a  little  to  the  south  of  the  main  vil 
lage.  It  yielded  a  living,  but  only  through 
hard  and  unremitting  work.  Such  work  forti 
fies  and  fructifies  some  natures ;  others  it  slowly 
renders  harder  and  harsher.  The  latter  was  the 
case  with  Garrett  Coe.  A  man  of  forty-five, 
his  firm,  fixed  face  showed  lines  that  were  not 
agreeable.  The  wiry,  square-trimmed,  iron- 
gray  beard,  the  square  shoulders,  the  strongly 
set  frame  of  medium  height,  all  corroborated, 
in  their  several  ways,  the  testimony  of  the  face. 
His  wife  realized  but  dimly  the  increasingly 
dominating  characteristics  of  the  man.  He  had 
been  other  and  better  in  the  earlier  days,— an 
ardent  wooer,  a  tender  if  imperious  lover,  an 
attentive  young  husband ;  and  she  still  mechani 
cally  imputed  to  him  these  qualities  of  his 
former  years.  She  herself  had  sprung  from 
kindlier  stock,  with  slowly  roused  initiative, 

60 


THE  TOILEES  61 

though  with  unguessed  capacity  for  action. 
Harshness  in  her  family  had  been  little  known, 
and,  as  appearing  in  her  husband,  was  even 
now  excused  or  scarcely  confessed  as  such. 

It  was  a  strainful,  stressful  life.  Through 
winter's  cold  and  summer's  heat  the  sheer  labor 
of  living  took  their  time  and  engrossed  their 
energies.  Coe  kept  no  indoor  help,  and  his  wife 
and  daughter  lived  the  hard  life  of  the  Plymouth 
and  Puritan  housewives  of  earlier  generations, 
— a  life  common  still  to  so  many  of  those  house 
wives'  descendants  who  get  their  living  from 
the  same  soil.  The  burden  was  a  grievous  one, 
not  easy  to  be  borne,  and  it  had  told  on  Mrs. 
Coe. 

It  was  near  the  end  of  August.  Garrett  Coe, 
with  his  summer-hired  farm-hand,  stamped  in 
from  the  fields,  and  plunged  his  hands  and 
wrists,  and  then  his  blazing  face,  in  the  deep 
tin  wash-basin  that  stood  in  the  kitchen  sink. 
Mrs.  Coe,  her  face  equally  blazing  from  the  heat 
of  the  stove,  was  anxiously  watching  the  bub 
bling  of  a  "  boiled  dinner,"  stopping  frequently 
to  note  the  progress,  in  another  covered  pot, 
of  some  boiling  ears  of  late  corn.  Fair-faced 
'Vinie,  graceful  in  her  simple  pink  calico  house- 
dress,  had  already  set  the  larger  kitchen  table 
with  cloth  and  plates.  One  of  the  two  sturdy 
younger  boys  came  staggering  in  with  a 
pailful  of  drinking-water,  drawn  from  the  well 


62  OLD   BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

outside  by  means  of  the  long  sweep  that  over 
hung  it.  The  other  was  sitting  on  the  back  step 
in  the  sun,  whittling  on  a  small  boat. 

The  farmer  reached  for  the  hand-towel,  while 
the  other  man  took  a  turn  at  the  basin  with 
some  fresh  water. 

"Found  some  o'  th'  fruit-tree  props  down 
ag'in  this  mornin',  an'  th'  branches  hangin' 
heavy,"  said  Coe,  savagely,  to  his  wife.  "  Thet  's 
the  second  time ;  an'  ef  I  ketch  th'  boys  thet  did 
it,  I  '11  lick  'em  so  hard  they  won't  do  it  a  third 
time." 

"The  wind  blew  pretty  strong  las'  night,  y' 
know,"  she  reminded  him. 

"Pshaw!  Wind  would  n't  blow  'em  down. 
I  tell  ye  't  was  boys, — some  boys  or  other. 
You  wait  till  I  find  out  who." 

"Did  y'  bring  in  them  berries  fr  dinner, 
Garrett?" 

"No,"  irritably  returned  Coe,  who  had  for 
gotten  them.  "  Sol  an'  I  've  got  other  things  t' 
do,  these  days,  b'sides  pickin'  berries." 

"  Y'  said  y'  would,  'cause  y'  wanted  th'  boys 
tr  stay  here  an'  stack  up  thet  wood  in  th'  shed. 
They  've  been  at  it  all  th'  mornin'." 

"Why  did  n't  y'  send  'em  afterward,  then? 
They  've  got  t'  do  a  share,  seems  t'  me,  now  thet 
school  ain't  runnin'.  Here,  Garrie !  "—to  the  boy 
whittling,—"  you  take  thet  pail  an'bring  in  some 
ras'berries  an'  blackcaps ;  d'  y'  hear  ? " 


THE  TOILERS  63 

" Oh,  pa ! w  remonstrated  his  wife.  " It  '11  take 
him  half  an  hour,  an'  we  're  jest  dishin'  dinner." 

"  Well,  what  of  it !  'T  won't  hurt  him  t'  be  a 
little  late.  I  want  some  dessert,  ef  you  don't." 

"  But  he  '11  come  in  all  hot  an'  tired,  an'  Gar- 
rie  ain't  been  jest  well,  y'  know." 

"  Ain't  I  come  in  hot  an'  tired  ?  Don't  I  hev 
t'  come  in  hot  an'  tired  every  day?  'T  won't 
hurt  th'  boy.  You  go,  now !  "  — to  the  latter, — 
"  an'  don't  stan'  there  gapin'." 

Garrie,  who  had  stood  divided  between  fear 
and  hope,  departed  reluctantly  with  pail  in 
hand,  and  his  mother,  with  a  sigh,  turned  again 
to  the  stove  to  serve  up  the  simmering  meal. 

"Everything  went  wrong  t'-day,"  declared 
Coe,  flinging  himself  into  a  chair.  He  began 
peevishly  to  narrate  one  incident  after  another, 
little  noticing  or  caring  that  the  mere  recital 
seemed  to  act  on  weary  Mrs.  Coe's  nerves  al 
most  as  tryingly  as  the  happening  of  the  actual 
things  themselves  would  have  done.  She  had 
enough  of  her  own  work  and  worries ;  but  her 
husband  never  spared  her  his,  making  each 
meeting  for  meals  an  opportunity  for  marshal 
ing  every  annoyance  and  set-back  of  the  day's 
work.  He  scarcely  seemed  to  derive  even  a 
surly  satisfaction  from  this,  his  grievances 
rather  increasing  as  he  dwelt  on  them ;  yet  his 
talk  was  rarely  of  anything  else,  unless  it  were 
a  growl  or  complaint  against  a  neighbor.  Coe 


64  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

was  a  good  hater.  His  wife  did  not  realize  how 
this  incessant  and  nagging  outcry  dispirited  and 
told  on  her ;  she  did  not  consciously  formulate 
her  dread  of  it ;  yet,  none  the  less,  it  added  re 
morselessly  and  immeasurably  to  her  own  daily 
burdens.  A  trouble  shared  is  a  trouble  halved ; 
but  a  worry  shared  is  often  only  a  worry 
doubled.  A  woman,  in  particular,  cannot  di 
vest  herself  of  the  impulse  of  sympathy,  even 
when  she  deliberately  tries  to,  which  it  never 
occurred  to  poor  Mrs.  Coe  to  do.  So  she  found 
herself  facing  the  daily  recital,  each  time  with 
new  outgiving  of  the  precious  and  diminishing 
capital  stock  of  composure  and  endurance  with 
which  she  had,  so  many  years  before,  started  on 
her  untried  married  life. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  meal,  after  little 
Grarrie  had  come  back  with  a  rather  unsuccess 
ful  half-pail  of  hastily  picked  berries,  Mr.  Coe 
found  himself  more  discomposed  and  out  of 
sorts  than  before.  The  farm-hand  had  eaten  in 
stolid  silence;  Mrs.  Coe  fragmentarily  and  by 
piecemeal,  since  much  of  her  attention  was  al 
ways  distracted  by  the  helping  and  overseeing 
of  the  meal. 

"  No  sugar  on  th'  table,"  grumbled  the  farmer. 
"  I  wish  you  or  'Vinie  'd  'tend  t'  things  properly." 
The  girl  rose  silently  and  got  the  sugar.  "  As 
I  was  sayin',  it  's  all  Hayes's  fault.  He  lives 
clus  in  town,  an'  thinks  he  c'n  run  this  piece  o' 


THE  TOILEES  65 

farm-land  o'  his,  next  t'  mine,  without  ever 
comin'  up  t'  look  it  over  more  'n  onct  a  day. 
An'  with  Harry  an'  Cheever,  too,— strappin' 
young  fellers  thet  'd  ought  t'  take  holt  an'  git 
t'  work  ruther  'n  set  'raound  an'  clerk  it  in  th' 
post-office  or  studyin'  law.  He  puts  on  airs,  ol' 
man  Hayes  does:  thinks  he  '11  put  his  sons  a 
leetle  higher.  He  's  jest  got  t'  keep  his  fences 
mended,  though,  an'  his  critters  off  my  land,  or 
they  '11  go  off  hurt." 

"  I  thought  I  heared  say  he  kep'  his  farm  up 
pretty  well,"  returned  Mrs.  Coe,  whom  her  hus 
band  always  required  to  "answer  up"  to  his 
tirades,  under  charge  of  "  sulkin'  off." 

"Well,  he  don't.  Nobody  in  Felton  does. 
They  don't  none  of  'em  know  shucks  'bout 
farmin',  compared  t'  what  it  's  said  folks  used 
to  in  th'  ol'  times.  Th'  town  's  goin'  down, 
thet 's  what  it  is,  an'  th'  people  in  it.  I  heared 
this  mornin'  thet  Charlie  Bradbury  'd  run  away, 
an'  taken  a  lot  o'  post-office  money." 

Mrs.  Coe  was  roused,  for  once,  into  eager 
astonishment  at  the  tidings. 

-"No!  Don't  tell!"  she  ejaculated.  "How 
ridic'lous  !  What  yarns  people  spin  !  " 

"I  don'  know  's  it 's  ridic'lous,"  said  her  hus 
band,  sharply.  "  He  's  gone,  sure  'nough.  An' 
I  dare  say  th'  rest 's  true." 

"'T  ain't  possible,  no  way,"  she  affirmed. 
"  Why  did  n't  y'  tell  me  b'fore  ? " 


66  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

Coe  had  been  wanting  to  speak  of  it  sooner, 
yet  had  held  it  back  from  a  kind  of  tempera 
mental  unwillingness  to  afford  his  wife  or 
any  one  else  the  natural  interest  in  a  bit  of 
news  or  other  fact.  He  was  not  affirmatively 
cruel,  but  of  late  years  he  was  always  nega 
tively  so. 

The  wife  forgot,  for  the  moment,  her  round 
of  clearing  up  while  she  pressed  for  details ;  but 
the  farmer  either  could  not  or  would  not  gratify 
her  curiosity,  and,  lighting  his  pipe,  gruffly 
bade  her  get  on  with  the  work  and  not  leave 
table-things  lying  over.  Mrs.  Coe  acquiesced, 
rebuffed,  and  it  was  not  long  before  her  hus 
band  was  engaged  on  his  favorite  theme  of  vitu 
peration,  —Mr.  Reed.  Mr.  Eeed  had  once  got  the 
better  of  him  in  a  pretty  sharp  though  legally 
just  money  transaction,  and  still  held  a  small 
mortgage  on  the  farm  in  consequence.  The 
storekeeper  was  not  loved  by  many  in  town,  but 
G-arrett  Coe's  hatred  of  him  exceeded  immea 
surably  the  passive,  mechanical,  hardly  con 
scious  dislike  felt  by  the  average  villager.  Coe 
never  lost  an  opportunity  of  expressing  it,  and 
made  opportunities  when  none  offered.  The 
farm-hand  had  tramped  out  to  his  work.  'Vinie 
was  aiding  her  mother  in  clearing  up  the  dishes. 

"  I  told  ye,"  Coe  was  snarling,  "  I  did  n't  want 
ye  t'  send  in  t'  Reed's  store  f 'r  any  thin'.  There 's 
other  stores  in  town.  An'  yit  Garrie  was  tellin' 


THE  TOILERS  67 

me,  this  mornin',  thet  he  was  in  there  yest'rday 
t'  buy  a  rollin'-pin." 

"  He  tried  every  other  store  first,"  explained 
Mrs.  Coe,  "  and  he  knew  I  needed  it  right  away." 

"  Y'  'd  ought  t'  've  got  along  without  it  fust. 
What  we  hev  t'  git  at  Reed's,  we  '11  make  our 
selves,  or  do  without.  We  ain't  got  money  t' 
spend  on  rollin'-pins,  anyway." 

"  I  had  t'  hev  one,"  she  repeated ;  "  an'  't  was 
only  fifteen  cents." 

"  I  '11  warrant  Reed  made  ten  on  it.  He 's  the 
hard-fistedest  man  in  town,  an'  his  little  laughin' 
hyena  of  a  partner,  Kemble,  's  another  like  him. 
I  hate  th'  sight  of  'em  both." 

Mrs.  Coe  was  long  ago  weary  of  this  topic, 
and  did  not  respond.  Resolved  to  force  a  reply, 
her  husband  went  on : 

"  Reed  's  th'  kind  o'  man  thet  ought  n't  t'  be 
let  live  or  prosper.  I  hear  all  his  money  's  in 
thet  store  business,  an'  it  'd  suit  me  mighty  well 
t'  see  th'  ol'  shell  burn  down.  An'  fust  thing  y' 
know,  I  '11  burn  it  fur  him !  " 

"  Why,  Garrett ! "  cried  his  startled  wife, 
jarred  into  speech.  "How  can  y'  talk  so?  I 
think  it 's  almost  wicked  t'  say  sech  things." 

"  Wicked,  is  it  ?  Well,  mebbe  it  's  .  no 
wickeder  to  do  'em,  then.  I  'm  good  f'r  this 
one.  You  see !  Pass  me  a  drink  out  o'  th' 
dipper,  will  ye?" 

'Vinie  did  so.    Her  father  rose. 


68  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

"  S'pose  I  've  got  t'  git  t'  work  ag'in,"  lie  said 
discontentedly.  "  Work,  work,  work !  Remem 
ber  thet  smooth-faced  French  feller  I  took  on 
f  r  a  week  or  so  last  summer  1 " 

"Th'  one  y'  kicked  off  th'  place  afterward!" 

"Yes;  I  caught  him  drinkin'  th'  milkin'  or 
somethin'.  But  I  was  wishin'  I  hed  him  on  ag'in 
now.  He  was  a  smart  worker." 

"  He  '11  never  come  back  after  th'  kickin'  y' 
gave  him." 

"  No,  I  reckon  not.  Gee,  how  furious  he  got ! 
Turned  'most  black."  Coe  laughed  harshly. 
"  Said  he  'd  git  even  with  me  ef  it  took  a  year. 
Bluster,  of  course.  F'rgot  it  nex'  day,  likely. 
Those  furriners  hain't  got  much  sperrit." 

"He  was  a  performer  or  somethin',  was  n't 
he  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Coe,  absently,  busied  with  set 
ting  out  the  materials  for  doughnut-making. 

"Yes;  out  o'  work,  he  said,  or  out  o'  luck. 
Smart  worker,  though.  Ef  we  'd  hed  him  last 
week,  we  'd  've  got  th'  hay  in  b'fore  thet  rain 
came.  My  luck,  I  s'pose." 

He  stalked  moodily  toward  the  door,  impa 
tiently  spurning  with  his  boot  the  thin,  frayed, 
rag-carpet  mat  which  lay  on  the  floor  and  which 
his  heavy  foot  encountered  as  he  passed. 

"  We  're  goin'  t'  pick  fruit  f'r  preserving"  he 
said,  "  an'  I  want  y' t'  do  up  all  we  c'n  fetch  ye 
an'  git  it  out  o'  th'  way.  I  hate  t'  hev  it 
stewin'  'raound  day  after  day.  We  an'  th' 


THE  TOILERS  69 

boys  '11  bring  y'  in  plenty  this  afternoon  an7 
early  mornin'." 

"All  right,"  assented  his  wife,  with  a  long 
breath,  and  the  farmer  passed  out  into  the  sun 
light,  carrying  his  hates  and  grumblings  with 
him. 

The  mother's  thoughts  slipped  successively, 
half-auto matically,  from  one  topic  to  another  as 
the  kitchen  work  went  on.  Presently  she  said : 

"  Burt  comin'  'round  this  evenin',  'Vinie  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  girl. 

"  He  's  pretty  reg'lar,"  observed  Mrs.  Coe,  ap 
provingly.  "  Guess  there  's  no  doubt  thet  he 
keers  a  lot  f  r  ye.  I  'most  wish  y'  'd  hurry  up 
an'  git  married,  'Vinie." 

"  Why,  ma  ? "  she  asked  timidly. 

"'Cause — well,  things  is  kind  o'  hard  fr  ye 
here.  There  's  a  deal  t'  do  an'  no  let  up,  an'  y' 
never  was  over-strong,  y'  know." 

"  I  suppose  there  '11  be  just  as  much  to  do  for 
Burt,"  said  'Vinie,  with  a  queer  little,  ungirlish, 
pathetic  apprehensiveness. 

Her  mother  started  slightly. 

"  Oh,  I  guess  not,"  she  said  quickly.  "  I  sh'd 
hope  not,  I  'm  sure.  Seems  as  ef  it  '11  be  difiP- 
rent  with  you,  somehow." 

"Yes,"  assented  'Vinie,  but  whether  doubt- 
in  gly  or  merely  listlessly  her  mother  could  not 
tell. 

"  Burt  's  a  big,  strong  fellow,"  went  on  Mrs. 


70  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

Coe,  cheerfully,  "  an'  he  '11  take  good  keer  o'  ye. 
His  father  's  given  him  a  good  piece  o'  land  t' 
start  with,  an'  he  's  built  thet  nice  little  house, 
an'  ye  '11  find  it  '11  all  be  reel  easy.  Y'  don't 
seem  t'  git  no  rest  here,  an'  it  worrits  me." 

"  As  much  as  you  do,  ma." 

"  Oh,  thet  ain't  th'  same  thing--  I  've  got  t' 
work,  of  course.  It 's  jest  plain,  straight  dooty. 
But  I  don't  want  you  should,— not  so  much, 
anyway." 

"  'T  is  n't  th'  work,"  spoke  the  girl,  who  had 
many  flitting  thoughts  to  which  she  rarely  gave 
utterance.  "  Seems  as  if  there  was  worse  than 
work  in  life  sometimes." 

"  Mebbe  there  is,"  agreed  Mrs.  Coe,  vaguely, 
her  attention  being  centered  for  the  moment  on 
measuring  certain  cupfuls  of  flour.  "Yes,  I 
don't  s'pose  I'd  ought  t'  complain." 

"  You  ?  Oh,  dear,  dear  mamma ! "  'Yinie  sud 
denly  burst  into  tears,  she  could  not  have  told 
why.  Dropping  her  polishing-cloth,  she  darted 
impetuously  toward  her  mother,  and  seizing  the 
tired  face  between  her  two  hands,  kissed  it  once 
and  repeatedly,  then  strained  the  other's  form 
to  her  in  a  sudden  tumult  of  daughterly  love 
and  womanly  sympathy.  "  As  if  I  meant  that ! 
Oh !  "  She  choked  again,  and  then  stood  gazing 
into  the  older  woman's  eyes,  her  own  swimming 
with  tears  and  affection. 

"Why,  'Vinie!     What  's  got  holt  o'  ye?" 


THE  TOILERS  71 

queried  her  mother,  strangely  touched  yet 
uncomprehending.  "  There,  there !"  She  gen 
tly  disengaged  herself.  "We  hed  n't  ought 
t'  be  keepin'  th'  work  back.  I  've  got  mendin' 
t'  do  afterward,  thet  y'r  father  '11  be  wan  tin'." 
She  kissed  'Viuie,  who  still  drew  little  sobbing 
breaths  at  intervals.  "  There !  I  can't  think 
what  took  ye."  And  with  an  unexpected  little 
sigh  of  her  own,  Mrs.  Coe  addressed  herself  to 
twisting  strips  of  dough  into  doughnut-shape 
for  frying;  while  'Vinie,  fuller  of  unanalyzed 
emotions  than  she  had  ever  known  herself  to 
be,  fled  for  a  few  niched  minutes  to  her  little 
room  up-stairs,  and  had  a  good,  unreasonable 
cry. 


IN  THE  POST-OFFICE 

A  FTER  supper  that  evening,  Garrett  Coe  took 
/"\  his  hat  and  went  off  down-town,  osten 
sibly  to  ask  for  letters  at  the  post-office,  but  in 
reality  to  hear  more  of  the  day's  gossip  regard 
ing  Charlie  Bradbury.  The  post-office,  on  a 
summer  evening  after  tea,  was  a  sure  center  of 
village  news.  The  postmaster  was  not  com 
pelled  to  open  it  in  the  evening,  and  in  bad 
weather  and  in  winter  did  not ;  but  he  cheerfully 
complied  with  the  long-standing  local  custom  to 
open  its  doors  from  seven  till  eight,  when  the 
days  and  seasons  permitted. 

Coe  shouldered  his  way  in  through  people 
grouped  near  the  doorway  and  within,  and 
ascertained,  as  he  expected,  that  there  was  no 
thing  for  him  at  the  wicket.  Then  he  stood 
about,  harkening  to  the  undercurrent  of  talk, 
and  now  and  then  taking  positive  and  rather 
vehement  sides  with  those  who  affirmed  that 
young  Bradbury  was  guilty  of  the  theft  ru 
mored  against  him.  Mrs.  Kemble  and  her 

72 


IN   THE   POST-OFFICE  73 

sister  Miss  Harvey  had  strolled  bareheaded 
down  the  street  to  the  post-office  with  the  same 
object  of  gathering  news  and  disseminating 
views;  and  Coe  fonnd  a  strong  ally  in  Miss 
Harvey. 

"  There  ain't  no  doubt  on  't,  t'  my  mind,"  she 
declared.  "  Anybody  c'd  've  seen  't  was  in  th' 
boy.  What  I  can't  see  is  how  Postmaster 
Leavitt"— she  lowered  her  voice— "  hed  n't  any 
more  sense  than  t'  take  him  on  here." 

"Thet 's  so,"  corroborated  Coe,  harshly. 

"  Well,"  winked  Mr.  Kemble,  who  had  come 
up,  "  anybody  '11  do  f'r  Uncle  Sam." 

"  Thet  ain't  so,"  indignantly  replied  his  sister- 
in-law,  who  nearly  always  took  him  seriously. 
"  I  'd  like  t'  know  who  'd  ought  t'  be  honest  ef 
not  them  thet  handles  our  letters.  I  call  it  jest 
a  burnin'  shame  thet  any  one—" 

"Why,  now,  Miss  Harvey,"  came  from  an 
other  voice  behind  the  group,— a  voice  so 
kindly,  so  mellow,  so  deep  and  rich,  as  to  com 
pel  attention,  as  it  always  did, — "  ain't  y'  goin' 
a  leetle  too  fast  ?  F'r  y'  know  we  've  reelly  got 
t'  be  sure  b'fore  we  c'n  condemn." 

It  was  Hiram  Wheeler  who  spoke.  A  big- 
framed,  big-souled  farmer,  with  a  circular  white 
fringe  of  beard  under  a  fine,  round,  russet  face 
that  glowed  as  beneficent  as  the  harvest  sun,  it 
was  a  benediction,  a  summons  to  cheerfulness 
and  charity  and  largeness  of  j  udgment,  merely 


74  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

to  look  at  him.  Few  in  Felton  really  gauged 
the  quiet,  controlling,  imperceptible  influence 
for  good  that  emanated  from  Hiram  Wheeler 
and  his  wife  and  the  rather  few  others  such  as 
he  in  the  narrowed  community.  His  gentle 
ness  did  not  preclude  power ;  for  at  rare  times 
men  had  seen  his  blue  eyes  flash  with  sudden 
lightning  of  righteous  anger,  and  he  had  even 
put  forth  his  great  strength  in  one  or  two  past 
emergencies  calling  for  manly  action.  Nor  did 
it  imply  a  smooth  and  untroubled  life;  for, 
though  successful,  his  life,  as  was  known  to  all 
his  neighbors,  had  not  been  without  its  hard 
and  anxious  work  and  its  poignant  griefs. 
But  these  things  had  left  him — or  made  him — 
the  man  he  now  was. 

"  We  're  sure  enough,  I  guess,"  Miss  Harvey 
answered,  with  tartness  oddly  mingling  with  a 
certain  respect. 

"  Well,  now,  it  don't  seem  so  t'  me.  What  've 
we  got  t'  go  on?  Nothin'  but  this,"— and  Mr. 
Wheeler  went  into  the  matter  at  some  length 
and  with  undeniable  acumen.  "  I  allers  b'lieve 
in  jedgin'  easy,"  he  finished. 

"  A  body  c'n  carry  thet  too  fur,"  asserted  the 
unconvinced  Miss  Harvey,  rebelliously. 

"  Yes,  they  kin,"  declared  Garrett  Coe. 
"  "  I  don't  think  so.     I  'd  ruther  be  wrong  ten 
times  in  thinkin'  a  man  good  than   once   in 
thinkin'  him  bad." 


IN   THE  POST-OFFICE  75 

"  Y'  '11  git  cheated  right  an'  left  on  thet  view," 
remarked  Mrs.  Kemble;  and  her  husband 
nodded  assent,  ruefully  slapping  his  pocket  with 
the  air  of  one  who  had  suffered  by  experience. 

"  I  can't  say 's  I  've  been,"  rejoined  the  hearty 
old  farmer.  "I  've  never  hed  a  hand  go  back 
on  me  yit,  thet  I  know  of;  nor  hook  a  dollar 
n'r  an  ear  o'  corn ;  an'  I  guess  I  hev  n't  ended 
up  wuss  in  life  because  I  've  been  trustin'." 

"  No ;  you  've  ended  up  better,"  rang  in  the 
clear,  genial  voice  of  Mr.  Clark,  who  had  come 
in.  "  You  'd  've  ended  up  better,  just  the  same, 
even  if  you  'd  ended  up  worse, — if  that  makes 
the  sense  I  mean.  I  've  often  said  that  Mr. 
Marshall  could  save  a  sermon,  some  Sunday 
when  he  's  behind,  by  just  getting  you  up  in 
the  pulpit  and  pointing  to  you." 

"  There,  now,  Sam  Clark,"  laughed  the  other, 
as  they  shook  hands,  "  don't  you  palaver  me 
as  ef  I  was  a  jury.  What  does  it  amount  to, 
t'  try  an'  think  well  o'  y'r  fellow-men ! " 

''Everything,"  returned  the  lawyer,  with 
energetic  earnestness.  He  glanced  around  the 
circle.  "  I  'm  getting  to  believe  it 's  the  begin 
ning  of  the  moral  law." 

"  Huh ! "  sneered  Coe,  with  little-concealed 
dissent ;  and  Miss  Harvey  gave  an  open  sniff. 

"  Well,"  remarked  Mr.  Kemble,  "  I  wish  I  c'd 
c'llect  some  debts  our  firm  has  by  thinkin'  well 
o'  th'  persons  thet  owe  'em." 


76  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

"  Mebbe  y'  've  never  tried,"  interjected  Hiram 
.Wheeler,  slyly. 

"  It  don't  work  in  business." 

"It  don't  work  anywhere,"  supplemented 
Coe,  tersely. 

Mr.  Wheeler  looked  at  him  slowly,  with  a 
chasing  shadow  of  indignation  on  his  face. 

"I  'm  not  sure  thet  th'  other  way  allers 
works  any  better,"  he  rejoined  meaningly. 
"  Poor  Mrs.  Bradbury ! "  he  added,  with  an 
instant  return  to  himself, — "  an'  th'  deac'n,  an' 
th'  girls,  too !  I  hope  they  won't  hear  all  th' 
town  talk.  It 's  hard  enough  t'  hev  their  boy 
go  fr'm  home,  no  matter  f r  what  reason." 

"I  jedge  likely  they  '11  hear  fast  enough," 
blithely  said  Mr.  Kemble,  as  the  little  knot 
broke  up.  "  Town  talk  creeps  in  like — like — " 

"  Red  ants,"  suggested  Mrs.  Kemble. 

"  Yes,  red  ants ;  or  an  east  wind ;  an'  y'  can't 
keep  either  out,  ef  they  git  movin'." 

They  passed  out  of  the  post-office,  save  Coe, 
who  sauntered  across  and  joined  another  small 
group.  While  they  were  talking,  Mr.  Reed 
entered.  He  was  evidently  one  of  the  few  who 
had  come  for  business,  for  he  mailed  a  few  let 
ters,  registered  one,  and  transacted  other  mat 
ters  at  the  window.  As  he  was  passing  out  he 
paused  a  moment  at  Coe's  group  and  briefly 
addressed  the  farmer  in  his  hard,  blunt  voice 
with: 


IN  THE  POST-OFFICE  77 

"  Your  interest 's  due  next  Friday.  See  that 
it 's  paid." 

"  Look  here !  "  Garrett  flamed  out  in  fierce 
resentment.  "  Thet  's  your  business  an'  mine ; 
not  th'  town's." 

Mr.  Reed,  who  had  turned  away,  paused 
again. 

"  It  '11  be  th'  town's  business  if  you  're  sold 
out,"  he  said  brutally. 

The  farmer's  fist  clenched  and  his  eyes  blazed. 
The  attack  found  him  in  ready  mood,  and  he 
made  a  step  forward. 

"It  '11  be  your  business  most  of  all,  ef  thet 
ever  happens,"  he  said  loudly  and  threaten 
ingly  ;  "  an'  I  'm  th'  one  thet  '11  'tend  to  it 
f  r  ye." 

The  little  group  around,  all  of  whom  hap 
pened  to  be  women,  fell  back  in  apprehensive 
silence.  Mr.  Eeed  promptly  took  up  the  retort 
courteous. 

"  If  you  could  'tend  to  your  own  successfully, 
you  would  n't  have  to  'tend  to  mine,"  he  said 
cuttingly. 

Garrett  Coe's  temper  yielded,  and  he  made  a 
rush  at  the  storekeeper.  The  latter  had  not 
anticipated  a  physical  attack,  and  retreated  a 
step  or  two.  The  women  gave  little  cries  and 
shrieks,  and  hurried  pell-mell  toward  the  door. 
Mr.  Leavitt,  who  heard  the  sudden  fracas  from 
behind  the  glass  screen  of  call-boxes,  made  for 


78  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

the  door  that  opened  into  the  outer  office  in 
order  to  interpose. 

Mr.  Reed  was  brave  enough,  and  was  firmly 
built.  He  clenched  Coe  instantly. 

"  You  drunken  boor ! "  he  uttered  angrily. 
"  Come  on,  then !  " 

There  was  a  rush  for  within  by  the  groups  of 
men  lounging  and  talking  outside  in  the  mild 
evening  air.  But  they  were  impeded  for  the 
moment  by  the  frightened  outrush  of  the 
women  who  had  formed  the  group  inside. 

Mr.  Leavitt  darted  excitedly  out  and  laid 
hold  of  the  struggling  Coe  from  behind.  He 
did  not  pause  to  feel  caution. 

"  Stop  !  "  he  panted,  tugging  at  the  farmer's 
arm.  "  Don't  fight  here !  What  're  y'  doin'  ? 
Stop ! "  He  gave  a  vigorous  pull. 

Coe  and  the  storekeeper  had  not  exchanged 
blows,  but  had  clasped  each  other  at  the  outset, 
and  were  now  swaying  strongly,  each  striving 
to  overthrow  the  other.  Mr.  Leavitt's  inter 
ference  was  not  much,  for  the  mild,  gray-haired 
postmaster  had  little  muscle  to  enforce  it ;  but 
it  hampered  and  hindered  Coe  just  when  he 
needed  all  his  forces.  With  a  quick,  powerful 
jerk  of  his  arm  backward,  he  caught  Mr.  Lea 
vitt  full  in  the  forehead  with  his  elbow,  and  the 
postmaster  was  thrown  to  the  floor. 

At  the  same  moment  the  men  outside  had 
forced  their  way  in,  just  in  time  to  see  him 
felled.  It  all  had  happened  in  a  few  seconds. 


IN  THE  POST-OFFICE  79 

The  struggle  was  forcibly  ended  in  an  in 
stant.  The  raging  Coe  was  pulled  off  by  half  a 
dozen  heavy  hands,  while  others  were  laid  upon 
Mr.  Eeed,  who  of  course  stood  in  no  need  of 
their  restraining  services.  Mr.  Leavitt,  bruised, 
dazed  and  trembling,  was  instantly  caught  up 
and  succored,  with  a  burst  of  real  affection 
which  few,  perhaps,  had  realized  that  they  felt 
so  warmly  for  the  kindly  official.  Mr.  Reed 
haughtily  shook  himself  free.  Coe,  on  the  con 
trary,  was  gripped  with  increasing  firmness, 
though  he  struggled  violently. 

"  Hit  th'  postmaster,  did  he  ? "  one  voice  was 
saying  threateningly. 

"Coward !  "  "A  hidin'  's  too  good  f'r  ye !  " 
"Allers  was  a  brute!"  and  other  exclamations 
mingled  high  about  him.  He  paid  no  heed.  In 
deed,  his  thoughts  were  not  upon  Mr.  Leavitt 
at  all. 

"  You  rascally  ol'  money-grubber !  "  he  roared 
at  Mr.  Reed.  "  I  '11  hev  it  out  with  ye !  Le'  me 
go !  " — wrestling  viciously  with  those  who  held 
him.  "  I  '11  knock  y'r  teeth  in,  an'  I  '11  burn 
out  y'r  store,  b'fore  I  'm  done  with  ye.  Skin 
flint  ! " 

"  Shet  up ! "  commanded  one  or  two,  sternly, 
and  a  wide,  rough  hand  was  quickly  clapped  on 
his  mouth. 

"You  men  had  better  put  a  strait-jacket 
on  him,"  observed  Mr.  Reed,  curtly.  "  A  fellow 
with  a  temper  like  that  ought  n't  to  be  at  large." 


80  OLD  BO  WEN'S  LEGACY 

He  picked  up  his  hat,  brushed  off  the  dust  with 
his  arm,  and  stalked  out. 

It  seemed  as  though  Coe  would  get  rough 
handling.  But  meanwhile  Mr.  Leavitt  had 
recovered,  and,  beyond  the  shock  and  the  jar 
on  the  forehead,  proved  to  be  entirely  himself 
again.  He  was  the  first  to  intercede  for  the 
farmer. 

"  He  wa'  n't  hittin'  me,"  he  urged.  "  Thet 
was  accidental.  Besides,  he 's  only  jest  excited 
a  leetle,  an'  a  body  don'  know  what  he  's  doin' 
then.  Come,  now,  you  better  let  him  off." 

Numbers  of  people  were  crowding  in  again 
by  this  time.  Mr.  Leavitt  rubbed  the  swelling 
bump  on  his  brow  and  smiled  cheerfully. 

There  was  a  brief,  impromptu  court-martial 
held  over  the  prisoner,  while  he  was  gripped  as 
in  a  vise,  with  somebody's  right  hand  over 
his  mouth  and  beard  and  the  left  one  over  his 
eyes.  Then  he  was  straightened  up,  pushed 
toward  the  door  through  the  throng,  which 
made  way  for  him  perforce,  shoved  also  through 
the  gathering  crowd  on  the  walk  toward  the 
curb,  and  propelled  with  a  hearty  kick  out  into 
the  semi-darkness  of  the  road. 

"You  pick  y'rself  up  an'  walk  straight  off 
home,  now,  or  we  '11  ride  ye  there  on  a  rail," 
was  the  emphatic  and  contemptuous  admoni 
tion  flung  after  him.  Two  stalwart  farmer 
lads  volunteered  to  keep  him  in  sight,  as  he 


IN  THE  POST-OFFICE  81 

stumbled  off,  and  see  that  he  did  no  violence 
on  the  way,  while  the  rest  turned  again  toward 
the  post-office  focus,  to  shower  friendly  queries 
and  good  offices  on  Mr0  Leavitt.  Few  asked 
for  Mr.  Reed,  who  had  disappeared  in  the  dark 
ness  in  the  other  direction. 

Half  mad  with  vindictiveness  at  the  rough 
justice  he  had  received,  and  little  comforted  by 
the  evidence  that  his  hates  and  hatefulness  had 
gradually  made  him  in  return  the  best-hated 
individual  in  Felton,  Garrett  Coe  stumped  off 
up  the  street,  cursing  under  his  breath.  He 
did  not  seek  to  pursue  Mr.  Eeed,  and  in  fact 
his  animosity  toward  that  individual  was  now 
merged  in  a  wider  animosity,  that  expanded 
and  grew  until  it  swept  within  its  purview  not 
merely  those  who  had  laid  hands  upon  him, 
but  the  entire  population  of  Felton,  and  of  the 
county  and  State  as  well.  In  a  word,  he  was 
in  a  fighting  mood  toward  all  humankind.  He 
did  not  see  his  two  shadowers  as  he  hastened 
blindly  along,  and  they,  after  following  him  for 
a  sufficient  distance  to  assure  themselves  that 
he  was  not  in  present  quest  of  the  storekeeper 
or  his  property,  returned  to  the  buzzing  center 
at  the  post-office,  where  the  people  now  had 
two  exciting  themes  to  talk  about,  instead  of 
merely  one,  which  in  itself  would  have  been 
sufficient  riches.  Mr.  Leavitt  earnestly  depre 
cated  any  hard  feelings  or  vengefulness  toward 


82  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

Coe  that  might  be  felt  on  his  behalf.  Apart 
from  the  general  dislike  long  felt  for  Coe,  there 
was  no  other  behalf  on  which  vengefulness 
could  be  very  strongly  felt,  for  Mr.  Eeed  was 
not  much  more  popular  in  his  way  than  the 
farmer  himself;  and  the  excitement  over  the 
incident  by  degrees  subsided. 

Coe  himself  had  sobered  down  somewhat 
when  he  reached  home ;  but  he  was  not  feeling 
agreeable,  nevertheless.  The  little  boys  had 
gone  to  bed.  Burt  Way  had  just  left,  oddly 
disquieted  by  a  certain  new,  almost  distrustful 
reserve  in  'Vinie's  manner,  which  had  kept  him 
at  a  distance  in  some  subtle  fashion,  and  had 
made  him  feel  strangely  at  a  loss.  'Vinie  her 
self  was  sitting  silent,  idle  for  the  nonce,  ab 
stractedly  staring  at  her  mother,  who,  in  the 
glow  of  the  kerosene  lamp,  was  at  work  on 
her  never-failing  pile  of  sewing. 

The  girl  started  as  her  father  tramped  ab 
ruptly  in,  but  her  mother,  apathetic  or  too  busy 
and  fatigued  for  demonstration,  gave  no  sign 
and  did  not  even  look  up  as  he  entered. 

Her  omission  added  vaguely  to  his  hot  and 
angry  feelings,  and  had  the  effect  of  directing 
them  upon  herself. 

"  Lamp  smokin' !  "  he  snorted,  and  crossing 
the  room,  he  reached  unceremoniously  over  his 
wife's  shoulder,  and  in  turning  down  the  flame 
extinguished  it. 


IN   THE  POST-OFFICE  83 

"  Plague  take  th'  concern ! "  he  ejaculated 
furiously.  "  Where  's  a  match  I  Bring  a  match, 
can't  ye ! " 

As  the  kitchen  door  happened  to  be  closed, 
the  light  from  the  kitchen  lamp  was  shut 
out;  and  it  was  only  after  a  minute  of  deft 
groping  in  that  direction  that  'Vinie  pulled 
the  door  open  and  thus  illuminated  the  room 
sufficiently  to  find  a  match  and  presently  set 
matters  straight  again. 

"  Sarves  ye  right,"  puffed  the  farmer,  irritably. 
"  Ought  t'  look  after  y'r  lamps  better." 

Mrs.  Coe  picked  up  her  tumbled  sewing,  and 
said  without  resentment : 

"  We  reelly  ought  t'  hev  a  new  lamp,  Garrett, 
ef  y'  c'd  afford  it.  This  one 's  out  of  order,  it 's 
so  old,  an'  th'  kitchen  one  ain't  even  as  good. 
I  hev  t'  do  so  much,  evenin's,  sometimes,  an'  it 
seems  t'  make  my  eyes  smart." 

"  Then  what  d'  y'  want  t'  work  at  night  fur  ? " 
demanded  her  husband. 

"  'Cause  I  gener'lly  hev  more  than  I  c'n  'tend 
to  in  th'  daytime." 

"  Pah !  "  said  Garrett.  "  Ef  y'  'd  work  a  leetle 
smarter  y'  would  n't.  I  hain't  got  any  patience 
with  these  complaints  all  th'  time." 

"  Why,  I  was  n't  complainin',  Garrett." 

"  Yes,  y'  was.  Y'  're  allers  doin'  it.  I  won't 
hev  it." 

'Vinie's  eyes  blazed,  though  she  said  nothing. 


84  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

"  Grot  th'  preservin'-things  ready  f'r  t'-mor- 
row ! "  he  pursued. 

"  I  told  ye  at  supper  I  bed." 

"  Well,  tell  me  ag'in,  can't  ye  f  No  harm  in 
sayin'  so  twice,  is  there  I "  A  pang  of  pain  shot 
through  his  left  arm,  which  had  been  wrenched 
in  the  recent  struggle.  "  Ow!  "  he  grunted,  and 
pulling  off  his  coat,  rolled  up  his  shirt-sleeve 
and  began  rubbing  the  skin,  which  showed  red 
and  swollen. 

His  wife  sprang  to  his  side,  her  work  falling 
again,  disordered,  on  the  faded  carpet. 

"  Garrett,  what  is  it  f  "  she  cried  with  impe 
rious  solicitude.  "  Hev  y'  hurt  y'rself !" 

"I  twisted  my  arm  somehow,  down-town," 
he  replied  shortly. 

"  Le'  me  rub  it.  Set  right  down  there  in  my 
chair  by  th'  lamp.  'Vinie,  you  git  th'  arnica  in 
th'  bedroom  closet  on  the  left-hand  shelf, — 
quick,  there 's  a  dear."  She  sought  to  draw  her 
husband  toward  the  chair. 

"  It  don't  want  rubbin',  I  tell  ye,"  he  said 
testily.  "  You  leave  it  be." 

"  It  ought  t'  hev  rubbin'  right  away,  Garrett," 
she  pleaded.  "  Y'  '11  hev  a  lame  arm  t'-morrow 
ef  y'  don't  let  me  fix  it,  an'  then  y'  can't  work. 
Do  set  down." 

"  I  won't,"  he  repeated,  repulsing  her  almost 
with  a  push.  "  You  git  t'  y'r  work.  I  '11  'tend 
t'  th'  arm." 


IN  THE  POST-OFFICE  85 

'Vinie  made  up  to  him,  her  slight  fist  clenched. 

"How  dare  you  treat  ma  that  way?"  she 
burst  out. 

"  'Vinie,  child  !  "  called  her  mother,  in  dismay 
and  disapproval.  "  What  d'  y'  mean  by  speakin' 
so  t'  y'r  father  1  He  ain't  treated  me  any  ways. 
Mebbe  his  arm  's  better  left  th'  way  't  is." 

Garrett  gave  a  harsh  laugh. 

"  This  is  a  result  of  your  bringin'  up,  I  guess," 
he  said  shortly.  "  You  been  puttin'  idees  in  th' 
girl's  head?" 

"No,  she  has  n't,"  cried  his  daughter,  indig 
nantly.  She  stood  glaring  at  him,  her  slender 
chest  heaving. 

"  Go  an'  set  down,"  he  ordered  roughly. 

"  Please  do,  'Vinie,"  begged  Mrs.  Coe. 

'Vinie  did  not,  but  she  flung  out  of  the  room 
in  a  tempest  of  pent-up  feeling. 

"  Young  spitfire,"  growled  her  father. 
"What  's  come  over  her?" 

"I  don'  know,"  sighed  the  woman,  meekly. 
"'T  ain't  like  'Vinie,  somehow.  'Pears  as  ef 
her  thinkin'  'bout  Burt  so  much  hed  kind  o' — 
I  don'  know,"  she  finished  lamely. 

"  Well,  I  won't  hev  any  more  of  it.  You  tell 
her  so.  She  ain't  any  too  old  t'  whip  yet. 
Talkin'  thet  way  t'  her  father ! "  He  came  and 
stood  looking  down  on  his  wife.  "  See  here," 
he  said,  "I  'm  goin'  t'  take  thet  silver  cande- 
labber  o'  yourn  over  t'  Hingham  nex'  week." 


86  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

She  gave  a  distressed  cry. 

"What  fur?" 

"  'Cause  I  want  some  money  on  it.  OP  Reed  's 
howl  in'  f'r  his  int'rest.  He  '11  git  it.  I  ain't 
goin'  t'  give  him  th'  satisfaction  o'  sellin'  me 
out  o'  this  place.  I  '11  git  even  with  him, — never 
fear ;  but  I  '11  pay  him  his  int'rest." 

"  But  not  thet,"  she  urged,  her  voice  break 
ing  a  little.  "Thet  was  mother's.  It  stood 
in  th'  ol'  home  f'r  years.  She  gave  it  t'  me. 
It 's  th'  only  handsome  thing  I  've  got.  An'  it 
came  fr'm  her." 

"  I  don't  care,"  he  returned  doggedly.  "  I  c'n 
git  sixty  dollars  on  thet,  f  r  th'  silver  alone." 

Mrs.  Coe,  greatly  discomposed,  made  a  pro 
longed  and  almost  tearful  plea  for  the  retention 
of  the  valued  heirloom ;  but  her  husband  was 
obdurate.  She  never  dreamed  of  giving  a  simi 
larly  obdurate  and  emphatic  veto,  and  her  lesser 
urgings  were  not  merely  ineffectual  but  added 
to  his  ugly  mood  as  well  as  to  his  obstinacy. 
She  could  only  end  by  acquiescing,  with  a  long, 
sorrowing  breath,  and  turned  again  to  her  work 
with  swimming  eyes  ill  able  to  cope  with  the 
close  needlework  and  the  inefficient  light. 

There  was  a  silence,  glum  on  his  part,  griev 
ing  on  hers.  He  had  flung  himself  into  a  dis 
tant  chair.  Presently  he  rose. 

"  I  'm  goin' t'  bed,"  he  said  briefly.  "  Y'  c'n 
foller  when  y'  git  ready.  Good  night." 


IN   THE   POST-OFFICE  87 

"Good  night!"  she  returned,  looking  up, 
and  the  grieving  suddenly  left  her  eyes,  and  in 
its  stead  came  a  light  of  love  such  as  heroes  and 
knights  might  give  of  their  noblest  to  win. 

"  Good  night,  Garrett,"  she  called  again  after 
him,  wondrously  forgetful  for  the  moment  of 
all  else  save  woman's  swift,  compelling  caring. 
"  I  do  hope  y'r  arm  '11  be  better  in  th'  mornin'. 
I  'm  so  sorry ! " 


VI 

THE   FIRE 

Fire!" 

"  Reed  &  Kemble's  store  's  afire ! " 
These  were  shouts  that  roused  the  village, 
late  one  evening  of  the  autumn  following.  It 
was  about  eleven  o'clock.  Most  of  the  towns 
folk  had  gone  to  bed.  Burt  "Way  and  Cheever 
Hayes,  who  had  been  having  a  little  friendly 
boxing  practice  out  in  the  Hayes  barn  by  lan 
tern-light,  were  standing  on  the  walk  afterward, 
discussing  feints  and  guards,  when,  a  little  way 
down  the  street,  a  man  emerged  from  the  alley 
leading  to  the  rear  of  Eeed  &  Kemble's  store, 
and  crossing  over  moved  off  into  the  darkness. 
There  was  a  peculiar,  wide-brimmed  black  felt 
hat  always  worn  by  Garrett  Coe  and  recogniz 
able  as  far  as  seen ;  and  it  was  this  hat  which 
the  two  now  saw  disappearing  into  the  distant 
gloom  of  the  street  vista.  The  youths  made  a 
passing  remark  on  the  lateness  of  the  hour  for 
that  brute  Coe  to  be  prowling  about  in  town, 
and  turned  again  to  their  conversation.  (Way 


THE  FIRE  89 

did  not  love  Coe  any  the  more  because  of  being 
the  latter's  prospective  son-in-law,  and  was  not 
blinded  to  his  disposition  and  reputation.)  Five 
minutes  afterward  they  smelled  smoke.  A 
moment  later,  as  they  stood  with  nostrils  sus 
piciously  sniffing  the  air,  a  thin  column  of  smoke, 
curling  up  from  the  alley  side  of  Reed  &  Kem- 
ble's  store,  became  distinctly  visible,  and  the 
two  young  men  started  on  a  run  for  the  scene. 
There  was  no  mistake.  The  warning  call  was 
promptly  given,  and  quickly  taken  up  by  others ; 
and  in  a  phenomenally  short  time  the  scene  was 
the  center  of  an  excited  group,  whose  numbers 
rapidly  increased. 

Burt,  after  giving  the  first  call,  rushed  down 
the  little  alley  to  the  place  in  the  broad  clap- 
boarded  side  of  the  store  from  which  the  smoke 
was  forcing  its  way.  There  was  a  low  cellar 
window  just  beneath,  and  the  smoke  was  com 
ing  from  this  and  oozing  from  the  clapboards 
above  as  well.  The  fire  had  evidently  started 
in  the  cellar  at  or  near  this  window.  It  was 
impossible  to  effect  anything  here,  and  Burt 
darted  on  around  to  the  back  part  of  the  store. 
The  rear  door  was  locked,  but  the  muscular 
young  farmer,  throwing  his  weight  against  it, 
sent  it  crashing  inward,  and,  with  two  or  three 
other  men  who  had  followed  him  down  the  alley, 
sprang  recklessly  into  the  darkness  inside. 

Cheever  Hayes  had  started  on  a  run  down  the 


90  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

street  for  the  hand-power  engine,  which  stood 
always  ready  in  a  detached  building.  Two  men, 
hurrying  toward  the  scene,  joined  him, — Mr. 
Pickering  and  Peter  Merritt.  They  took  hold 
of  the  long  handle  with  Cheever,  and  ran  the 
machine  out  into  the  road. 

"Where  is  it!"  demanded  Mr.  Pickering, 
excitedly. 

"  Heed's  store.  Hi !  Sneezer !  Come  here 
and  give  us  a  hand,  quick.  You  too,  there !  " 
calling  to  Watkins  and  another  figure  ap 
proaching  along  the  dark  street.  "Hurry  up, 
whoever  you  are !  Now,  all  together ! " 

They  moved  off  at  a  brisk  pace,  two  on  each 
side  of  the  tongue  and  Sneezer  Watkins  push 
ing,  and  the  engine  was  quickly  rushed  to  the 
scene  of  the  fire. 

Buckets  and  pails  had  meanwhile  appeared 
mysteriously  from  all  sides.  Women  came  has 
tening  up  with  them,  one  or  two  in  each  hand. 
No  one  stopped  to  look  at  or  criticize  his  neigh 
bor's  costume.  A  village  fire  meant  work  and 
nothing  else.  Men  had  dragged  on  their  trou 
sers  and  coats  and  stepped  into  gaping  shoes,  and 
were  out  of  their  houses,  gathering  themselves 
together  as  they  ran.  The  women  were  more  de 
liberate,  yet  no  attempts  were  made  at  toilets,  for 
every  minute  of  every  helper  might  be  of  value. 

There  was  a  large  well  at  the  front  of  a  neigh 
bor's  property, — the  Kents', — across  the  street, 


THE  FIRE  91 

and  a  double  line  of  men,  boys  and  women 
quickly  formed  from  this  to  the  alleyway. 
While  the  stalwart  owner  of  the  place  vigor 
ously  worked  the  great  well- wheel  and  kept 
filling  the  pails  from  the  dripping  bucket, 
Dutchy  Keller  and  Tom  Secor  at  the  other  end 
of  the  line  began  dashing  the  water  down  into 
the  cellar  aperture  and  against  the  rapidly 
warping,  blistering  side  of  the  store,  where 
little  puffs  and  jets  of  flame  were  following 
out  the  bursting  smoke. 

Burt  and  the  others  who  had  forced  an  en 
trance  into  the  store-room  at  the  rear  groped 
their  way  through  into  the  main  store.  The 
long,  wide  room  was  alight  with  a  dull,  red, 
angry  glare,  there  was  a  buzz  and  crackle  in  the 
air,  and  flames  were  leaping  fiercely  up  from 
below,  behind  a  counter,  near  the  spot  where 
the  smoke  had  first  been  perceived  outside. 
The  familiar  opposing  counters  running  the 
length  of  the  store,  the  nondescript  little  in- 
closure  for  the  cash-keeper  in  the  center,  the 
boxes  and  barrels  and  bales,  and  the  jars  and 
canisters  and  packages  and  rolls  of  goods  on  the 
shelves,  all  seemed  to  have  lost  the  easy  wonted- 
ness  of  daytime  and  looked  strange  and  spectral 
and  queerly,  livingly  apprehensive  in  the  dim 
crimson  glow. 

Burt  made  for  the  hardware  corner,  and  seized 
a  heavy  new  ax,  with  which  he  quickly  opened 


92  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

a  way  through  one  of  the  barred  front  windows. 
Some  of  the  crowd  outside  had  been  trying  to 
break  in,  but  the  front  door  and  window-bars 
were  stout  and  had  held  firm.  The  smoke  came 
surging  up  in  thicker  and  thicker  masses,  and 
flames  licked  their  way  high  along  the  side  wall. 
Men  poured  into  the  store,  and  goods  and  wares 
were  recklessly  flung  down  from  the  burning 
shelving.  Two  or  three  men  hastened  down  to 
the  cellar,  but  there  the  smoke  and  blaze  made 
it  impossible  to  remain.  The  engine  had  now 
been  connected  with  the  well  across  the  street, 
and  while  willing  hands  grasped  the  long  double 
lever  of  the  engine-pump,  the  nozzle  of  the  hose 
was  dragged  within  the  store  door  by  Peter 
Merritt,  who  pushed  it  intrepidly  into  the  very 
face  of  the  flames. 

But  the  fire  was  rapidly  escaping  control. 
Burt  Way,  now  engaged  with  many  others  in 
salving  goods  by  throwing  them  to  those  out 
side,  wondered  fleetingly  that  it  should  have 
gained  such  swift  headway  during  the  little  time 
elapsing  since  he  and  Cheever  had  first  seen  that 
black  slouch-hat, — no,  it  was  the  smoke,  five 
minutes  later.  He  gave  a  slight  start  at  some 
thing  in  the  collocation  of  the  two  ideas,  then 
continued  his  work  without  cessation.  The 
shelves  were  rapidly  being  stripped.  There 
were  plenty  of  workers.  The  books  and  ledgers 
had  been  carried  out.  Mr.  Eeed  and  Mr.  Kemble 


THE   FIRE  93 

had  arrived  from  different  directions  almost  at 
the  same  time,  and  Mr.  Reed  himself  had  boldly 
forced  his  way  through  the  blinding  smoke  to  the 
safe,  and,  unlocking  it,  had  borne  outside  a  part 
of  the  contents,  followed  by  Mr.  Kemble  with 
much  of  the  rest.  Mr.  Reed's  son  Enos  was 
busy  seeing  to  it  that  the  most  valuable  articles 
of  the  stock  were  taken  out  first. 

The  snapping  and  crackling  of  the  fire  made 
itself  heard  more  and  more.  Men  were  driven 
out  by  the  fiery  heat  inside  the  store,  and  came 
tumbling  forth,  one  by  one,  gasping  and  reluc 
tant,  with  red  and  sweating  faces,  drinking  in 
with  momentary  relief  the  cool  autumn  evening 
air.  Flames  burst  out  at  the  side  and  front  of 
the  building,  and  the  roof  itself  was  now  on 
fire. 

On  the  side  of  the  store  away  from,  the  alley 
was  a  small  brick  drug-store,  the  individual 
property  of  Mr.  Reed.  Mr.  Bradbury  and  Mr. 
Pickering  were  among  the  first  to  perceive  that 
the  larger  store  had  to  go,  and  to  direct  the 
general  energies  toward  saving  the  drug-store 
and  the  neighboring  houses  and  keeping  the 
fire  from  spreading.  Peter  Merritt  had  even 
sooner  realized  this,  and  for  several  minutes 
had  been  playing  his  hose  on  the  side  of  the 
store  opposite  to  that  on  which  the  fire  had 
started.  The  awkward  farmer's  hand  was  dis 
playing  no  little  coolness  and  generalship. 


94  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

When  he  had  turned  the  nozzle  away  from  the 
hottest  of  the  flames  and  had  dragged  the  hose 
across  to  the  other  side,  there  had  been  sur 
prised  and  vehement  protests.  Some  had  at 
tempted  to  snatch  the  hose  from  his  grasp. 
Burt  Way  and  one  or  two  others,  however,  were 
quick  to  see  the  meaning  of  Peter's  maneuver, 
and  stoutly  sustained  him;  and  he  had  thor 
oughly  saturated  that  side  of  the  store  before 
the  creeping  flames  and  rolling  smoke,  driving 
others  one  by  one  from  the  building,  expelled 
him  last  of  all.  Forced  finally  to  haul  out  his 
reluctant  hose,  he  gave  it  into  the  hands  of  Tom 
Secor,  the  carpenter,  with  instructions  to  play 
on  the  little  drug-store  building  within  and 
without.  Men  had  already  climbed  to  its  low 
slate  roof  and  were  covering  this  with  lengths 
of  water-soaked  matting  from  the  store's  stock, 
letting  long  ends  fall  over  the  rear  and  sides. 

Across  the  alley,  sitting  somewhat  back,  was 
a  frame  house,  whose  occupants  had  taken  alarm 
and  with  others'  help  had  been  carrying  out 
their  household  effects  and  depositing  them  on 
the  wide  grass-plot  beyond.  In  a  marvelously 
short  time  the  house  was  almost  completely 
stripped.  Strong-armed  Ann  Mead  did  a  man's 
work  helping  in  this.  Miss  Jewett  was  out 
on  the  lawn,  with  the  owner's  wife  and  Mrs. 
Bradbury,  Mrs.  Leavitt,  and  even  crippled  Miss 
Lorinda  Park,  who  had  hobbled  up,  and  they 


THE  FIEE  95 

received  and  guarded  the  outpour  of  belongings. 
Some  of  the  tall  elms,  their  dying  leaves  crisp 
and  combustible  after  the  summer's  heat,  had 
begun  to  catch  fire,  and  this  was  a  new  source 
of  danger. 

The  water  from  the  line  of  buckets  was  now 
directed  upon  this  house.  Men  sprang  up-stairs, 
and  throwing  open  the  trap-door  in  the  roof, 
were  soon  busily  dashing  pailfuls  of  water  upon 
the  shingled  slope  from  a  tank  in  the  attic,  while 
the  kitchen  pump  which  supplied  the  tank  was 
kept  steadily  going.  Pieces  of  carpet  were  hung 
out  to  cover  as  much  of  the  roof  and  exposed 
side  as  possible,  and  were  kept  thoroughly  wet. 

Ann  Mead  was  among  the  bucket- wielders  at 
the  trap-door.  While  flinging  the  water  from 
her  pail,  she  lost  her  footing,  slipped  on  the 
sodden  carpeting,  and  slid,  not  rapidly  but 
surely,  down  the  wide  slope  of  the  roof  till  her 
progress  was  arrested  by  the  gutter  at  its  edge. 
Her  position  would  not  have  been  perilous  save 
for  the  great  heat  and  multiplying  sparks,  and 
the  ignited  leaves  which  kept  drifting  down  from 
the  burning  elms.  As  it  was,  the  spot  was  one 
of  some  danger.  There  were  shouts  from  below 
and  cries  for  a  ladder.  Ann  did  not  scream  nor 
call.  There  was  no  need,  for  Peter  Merritt,  who 
had  come  over  from  the  drug-store,  had  been 
working  close  beside  her.  Brushing  others  im 
petuously  aside,  he  leaped  back  upon  the  tank- 


96  OLD  BO  WEN'S  LEGACY 

room  floor,  and  tore  down-stairs,  knowing 
precisely  what  lie  wanted, — a  length  of  stout 
clothes-line.  He  found  what  he  sought,  and 
was  back  up-stairs  again  more  quickly  than 
seemed  possible,  tying  an  end  of  the  line  around 
his  chest  as  he  came.  Giving  the  line  to  Abner, 
Mr.  Bradbury's  hired  man,  to  pay  out,  he  slid 
down  the  slope  of  the  roof  to  the  point  where 
Ann  was  clinging.  It  was  time.  Her  sturdy 
efforts  to  climb  up  had  proved  ineffectual.  The 
wet  shingles  and  saturated  carpeting  gave  no 
foothold.  Her  dress  had  already  caught  fire  in 
several  places.  These  little  flames  she  was  able 
to  extinguish,  but  her  actions  were  hampered 
by  her  insecure  position,  and  the  sparks  were 
falling  thicker  and  thicker.  The  angry  roar 
and  the  blaze  and  glare  from  the  now  flaming 
building,  so  near,  as  it  seemed,  dominated  every 
thing  and  might  well  have  terrified  her.  Those 
who  called  Peter  Merritt  shambling  or  slow 
would  have  had  no  occasion  for  such  epithets 
as  he  slid  agilely  down  toward  the  woman,  and 
grasping  her  firmly  under  the  arms,  was  drawn 
up  with  her  by  Abner  and  the  others  to  safety. 
Numbers  of  those  below  had  stopped  their 
labors  for  the  moment,  and  watched  the  rescue 
with  interest.  Miss  Jewett,  who,  when  the  cry 
regarding  Ann's  danger  had  been  raised,  had 
hastened  around  to  a  point  where  she  could  view 
that  side  of  the  building,  saw  Peter's  movements. 


THE  FIRE  97 

She  hurried  back  to  her  post  the  moment  Ann 
was  safely  extricated ;  but  she  found  time  to 
make  a  passing  mental  reparation  to  Peter  for 
certain  views  concerning  his  awkwardness  and 
inefficiency. 

Burt  Way  was  now  working  on  the  drug-store, 
with  Enos  Reed  and  others.  Cheever  Hayes, 
his  arms  stiff  with  engine-pumping,  delegated 
his  task  to  another  and  came  into  the  dripping 
little  room  to  help.  As  he  came  up  to  Burt,  he 
said  with  a  meaning  grin : 

"Big  blaze  for  Garrett  Coe's  shavings  to 
start,  eh?" 

Burt  started  slightly  to  hear  his  own  vague 
suspicions  thus  distinctly  formulated.  Enos 
Reed  also  heard. 

"  What 's  that ! "  he  demanded,  wet  and  pant 
ing. 

"Tell  you  by  and  by,"  said  Burt,  shortly. 
"  Keep  to  work." 

The  store  roof  fell  noisily  in,  amid  a  shower 
of  sparks  and  fiery  splinters.  The  front  and 
rear  walls  collapsed  at  the  same  time.  But  the 
alley  side  of  the  building  still  presented  a  mag 
nificent  and  menacing  sight.  It  was  ablaze 
from  top  to  bottom,  a  great  plane  of  flame  that 
towered  and  roared  up  into  the  air,  illuminating 
the  scene  far  down  the  double  vista  of  the  dim 
street  and  lighting  the  landscape  for  a  long 
radius  around.  But  the  flames  now  ate  away 


98  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

the  timbers  so  rapidly  that  soon  only  a  gaunt 
skeleton  was  left,  a  red,  bony  outline  in  the 
dazzling  glare;  and  this  slowly  crumbled  and 
sank  almost  in  situ. 

The  dark  throng  in  the  street,  their  faces  all 
ruddy  in  the  reflected  light,  gave  a  cheer  as  the 
wall's  thin  framework  fell  and  it  was  seen  that 
the  neighboring  house  and  the  drug-store  were 
saved. 

Garrett  Coe,  not  yet  gone  to  bed,  had,  from 
the  slight  elevation  of  his  home,  seen  the  distant 
light,  as  also  had  his  wife,  who  had  been  sitting 
up  sewing;  but  he  shortly  and  stubbornly  re 
fused  to  go  down  and  see  whose  house  was  burn 
ing  and  what  aid  he  could  render.  He  refused 
also  to  let  his  wife  go,  although  she  could 
scarcely  restrain  her  impulse  to  hurry  off  in 
aid.  'Vinie,  without  waiting  to  ask,  had  at  once 
slipped  out  into  the  gloom,  and  at  the  scene  had 
lent  her  small  strength  and  great  nervous  energy 
in  various  directions  where  it  might  be  needed. 
The  two  small  boys  were  awake  and  up,  in  their 
nightgowns.  Their  insistent  clamors  to  go  had 
been  sternly  silenced  by  their  father,  and  they 
had  to  be  content  with  watching  the  glow  with 
their  parents  from  the  windows.  One  of  them 
took  the  occurrence  with  boyish  eagerness  and 
interest;  the  other,  sensitive  little  Garrie,  ap 
peared  unaccountably  distressed  and  alarmed. 

"  Oh,  papa,"  he  kept  crying  out,  "  where  d'  y' 


THE  FIKE  99 

think  it  c'n  be?  I  can't  bear  t'  think  of  any 
body's  place  burnin'  up !  " 

His  father  admonished  him  to  be  silent ;  and 
in  fact  Coe  was  unusually  silent  himself. 

At  the  scene  itself,  Burt  and  Cheever  now 
found  time  to  tell  of  their  discovery  of  the  first 
smoke,  and  of  their  previous  recognition  of  a 
well-known  felt  hat.  Enos  Keed  had  already 
dropped  statements  here  and  there  concerning 
what  he  had  overheard,  and  the  accounts  of  the 
other  two  were  eagerly  sought.  Tom  Secor 
contributed  to  the  discussion  by  exhibiting  a 
large,  horn-handled  pocket-knife  which  he  had 
picked  up,  open,  in  the  alley.  It  bore  the  ini 
tials  "  Gr.  C."  scratched  deep  into  the  handle,  and 
several  persons  recognized  it  as  Coe's  knife. 
He  was  an  inveterate  whittler,  and  nearly 
always  when  in  town  was  seen,  knife  in  hand, 
absently  but  determinedly  slivering  splinter 
after  splinter  from  some  piece  of  soft  pine.  To 
those  with  sharp  eyes  for  details  his  knife  had 
in  time  become  quite  as  well  known  as  himself. 

The  fire  was  by  no  means  over,  nor  even 
wholly  subdued.  Much  more  work  and  water 
were  necessary  before  the  town  could  go  to  bed, 
that  night,  with  the  feeling  that  its  labor  was 
done.  In  fact,  the  work  was  still  going  on  vigor 
ously.  The  men  pumping  the  engine  and 
passing  the  water-pails  were  steadily  busy.  A 
constant  sputter  and  vast  hissing  of  steam  arose 


100  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

from  the  red-hot  ruins,  where  rebellious  flames 
were  still  spurting  up  and  licking  hungrily  the 
fallen  timbers.  The  store  was  of  course  a 
total  loss,  and  a  large  part  of  its  contents  was 
either  destroyed  or  damaged.  Mr.  Reed  never 
theless  moved  about  with  a  calm,  hard,  unper 
turbed  demeanor,  active  and  resourceful  in 
working  and  in  giving  orders,  but  apparently 
not  at  all  downcast  or  distressed  at  the  disaster 
to  his  business.  Mr.  Kemble  had  not  lost  his 
waggish  habit,  and  had  cracked  jokes  or  uttered 
pleasantries  as  freely  while  hauling  at  a  length 
of  hose  or  running  out  barrels  and  butter-tubs 
as  habitually  when  standing  at  the  store  door 
during  business  hours.  More  and  more  the  ral 
lying  flames  were  beaten  down,  a  dull  glow 
succeeded  the  daylight  glare,  and  the  incessantly 
plied  water  gained  a  wider  victory ;  until  at  last 
the  tired  relays  of  pumpers  at  the  engine  were 
able  to  cease  work.  The  fire  was  over,  and  the 
familiar  old  high  frame  store,  so  long  a  land 
mark,  with  the  legend,  "Reed  &  Kemble" 
painted  in  black  letters  across  the  front,  had 
disappeared  and  given  place  to  an  unsightly 
heap  of  water-soaked  charcoal  and  smoldering 
ashes  and  embers. 

Meanwhile  the  little  knots  discussing  Garrett 
Coe  grew  greater,  as  new  recruits  were  released 
to  join  them.  'Vinie,  shrinking  aghast  among 
the  fringes  of  the  groups,  had  no  idea  before 
of  the  intensity  of  the  popular  dislike  of  her 


THE  FIEE  101 

father,  now  rapidly  swelling  to  threats  of  open 
violence.  The  pocket-knife  was  passed  from 
hand  to  hand.  Burt  Way  and  Cheever  Hayes 
were  eagerly  questioned  again  and  again  and 
repeated  their  accounts.  Burt  had  not  caught 
sight  of  'Vinie  in  the  crowd,  but  it  would  have 
made  no  difference  to  him  if  he  had,  for  he  had 
never  concealed  from  her  his  dislike  of  her 
father,  nor  his  often  fierce  resentment  at  Coe's 
treatment  of  her  mother  and  herself ;  and  hav 
ing  seen  what  he  had  to-night,  he  was  impetu 
ous  and  outspoken  enough  to  have  indignantly 
published  it  to  all  the  world.  Nor  did  he  f  ear 
that  clear-seeing,  intense  little  'Vinie  would  fail 
to  share  in  his  scornful  anger.  Had  he  been 
older,  he  might  have  prudently  said  less,  but 
excited  youth  rarely  stops  to  consider  the  con 
sequences  of  its  words. 

It  was  not  till  calls  for  a  rope  began  to  be 
heard,  and  sinister-looking  preparations  seemed 
to  be  makiog  for  a  march  on  Coe's  home,  that 
Burt  realized  what  passions  he  had  aroused, 
and  immediately  and  wisely  sought  to  hedge. 
He  was  altogether  unwilling  to  go  to  the 
length  of  hanging  his  prospective  father-in-law 
or  of  inciting  to  that  act.  In  fact,  the  act  was 
probably  not  contemplated  with  seriousness 
even  by  those  who  were  calling  for  the  means 
of  accomplishing  it.  Sober  Vermonters  are  not 
in  the  habit  of  going  lynching,  even  with  blood 
and  temper  inflamed  by  fire  and  vindictiveness. 


102  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

Still  the  crowd  was  in  a  mood  to  be  ugly.  The 
incendiarism,  if  such  it  was,  had  imperiled 
other  buildings  in  Felton  than  the  one  de 
stroyed,  and  moreover  few  crimes  are  so  utterly 
odious  in  a  village  community  as  arson.  There 
were  men  quite  ready  to  march  up  to  Garret t 
Coe's  house,  drag  him  forth,  and  punch  his  head 
or  cowhide  him,  or  possibly  administer  a  coat 
of  tar  and  feathers. 

While  matters  were  in  this  threatening  state, 
hearty  Hiram  Wheeler,  who,  despite  his  years, 
had  been  doing  yeoman's  work  at  the  fire,  ap 
proached,  and  quickly  perceived  the  drift  of 
matters.  Men  respected,  and  in  their  restrained 
way  loved,  old  Farmer  Wheeler,  and  his  words 
bore  weight.  He  at  once  addressed  himself  to 
turning  the  tide  of  opinion  into  more  smooth- 
running  channels. 

"  How  much  d'  y'  know?  "  he  urged.  "  Thet  's 
th'  main  p'int.  Admittin'  there  's  good  reason 
t'  punish  a  fire-bug,  it  's  mighty  important  t' 
be  sure  o'  y'r  bug." 

"We  're  sure  'nough,"  came  sulkily  from 
several. 

"Well,  now,  air  ye!  What  've  y'  got  t'  go 
by  ? — a  black  hat  thet  these  two  lads  saw  in  the 
dark ;  a  knife  picked  up  somewheres  near ;  an' 
an  unpop'lar  reputation.  'T  ain't  enough,  by 
long  odds." 

"  Come,  now,  you  're  as  sure  as  we  be,  ef  y'  '11 


THE   FIRE  103 

only  confess  it,"  said  one,  with  good-humored 
impatience. 

"It 's  one  thing  t'  be  sure,— supposin'  I  felt 
so,— an'  another  t'  know.  When  y'  're  f  r  start- 
in'  off  like  this,  y'  've  got  t'  know.  Bein'  sure 
ain't  enough." 

"  /  won't  have  anything  to  do  with  going  up 
there,  for  one,"  chimed  in  big  Burt,  authorita 
tively.  "  And  what  's  more,  if  any  go,  I  '11  go 
too— and  help  G-arrett  Coe." 

'Vinie,  hidden  in  the  edge  of  the  group  in  the 
dark,  felt  an  involuntary  thrill  of  quick  approval 
of  her  lover ;  but  she  promptly  suppressed  this 
and  for  some  strange  reason  chided  herself. 

"  Same  here,"  called  out  easy-going  Cheever, 
who  loved  laughter  better  than  tears  or  frowns 
and  was  instant  to  be  dissuaded  from  harsh 
judgments. 

"Well,  I  '11  go,  fr  one,"  growled  a  listener, 
still  breathing  hard  with  his  recent  work  and 
seeking  vent  for  further  energies.  "  I  'in  ready 
t'  tackle  Burt  an'  oP  Coe  t'gether." 

"  So  'm  I,"  "  An'  I,"  came  from  several.  Mat 
ters  were  wavering.  A  quick,  business-like 
tread  approached.  It  was  Mr.  Pickering's.  He 
was  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  as  were  most  of  the 
others,  and,  rich  and  influential  man  though  he 
was,  had  worked  as  hard  as  any  of  them. 

"  What 's  going  on ! "  he  demanded,  scenting 
mischief.  Matters  were  quickly  explained  to  him. 


104  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

"  Pshaw !  "  said  lie,  contemptuously.  "  You 
men  have  got  a  little  hot-headed,  that  's  all. 
Do  you  want  Felton's  good  name  mixed  up  with 
any  such  row?  Remember  how  a  thing  like 
that  has  stuck  to  Westbury  all  these  years. 
I  thought  there  was  better  sense  here." 

Mr.  Pickering's  quick  scorn  and  his  authority 
carried  weight.  Another  voice  here  interposed, 
— that  of  Nathan  Bradbury,  who  had  come  up 
with  Mr.  Pickering.  His  tall,  muscular,  well- 
formed  figure  loomed  high  in  the  gloom,  and 
his  words  fell  deliberately. 

"  This  town  's  allers  been  ruled  by  law  an' 
order,"  he  announced  grimly,  "  an'  it  's  goin'  t' 
keep  on  bein'.  Ef  there  's  mischief  afoot,  I  '11 
be  there  t'  help  stop  it." 

Mr.  Bradbury  was  six  feet  two,  but  there  was 
power  about  him  that  was  not  due  to  feet  and 
inches.  Certain  recent  family  troubles  of  his 
own,  followed  by  his  secession  from  the  church, 
had  withdrawn  him  of  late  from  village  fellow 
ship,  but  they  had  in  no  wise  lessened  his  pres 
tige  and  potency  in  an  emergency.  His  firm, 
weighed  words,  following  upon  Mr.  Pickering's 
wholesome  rebuke,  turned  the  scale.  The  dis 
affected  moved  away  in  different  directions,  but 
not  in  the  direction  of  Coe's  farm.  There  would 
be  no  skulking  reorganization  of  the  project, 
as  its  opposers  well  knew.  Coe's  punishment 
not  being  carried  out  then  and  openly  and  in  the 


THE   FIRE  105 

heat  of  the  moment,  New  Englanders  were  not 
the  men  to  seek  to  effect  it  by  subsequent  plot- 
tings  and  secret  means.  The  execrated  farmer 
was  safe,  from  the  moment  Mr.  Bradbury's  stern 
words  had  carried  the  day,  and  'Vinie  knew  it 
as  she  bounded  silently  off  down  the  dark  street, 
her  apprehensions  gone. 

At  the  same  time,  the  bitterness  of  popular 
feeling  against  the  man  gained  rather  than  lost 
from  thus  being  deprived  of  collective  manifes 
tation.  Persons  who  would  have  deprecated 
horse- whipping  him  were  the  quicker  to  tongue- 
lash  him.  G-arrett  Coe's  ears  must  have  burned, 
that  night,  at  the  diatribes  of  his  townspeople, 
as  the  story  of  the  evening  flew  from  lip  to  lip. 
Disliked  before,  though  generally  passively,  he 
was  now  actively  detested.  Mr.  Clark,  who  had 
been  making  a  careful  circuit  and  survey  of  the 
entire  premises,  was  hunted  up  by  muttering 
little  knots  of  men  and  consulted  as  to  the  possi 
ble  jailing  and  prompt  criminal  prosecution  of 
the  accused  incendiary.  He  was  quick  to  share 
the  general  indignation ;  but  on  hearing  all  the 
evidence  obtainable  from  the  talk,  he  shook  his 
head. 

"There  's  no  real  proof,"  he  said, — "nothing 
even  to  arrest  any  one  on.  What  Hiram  Wheeler 
said  is  as  good  law  as  it  is  sound  sense." 

The  lawyer,  disliking  Coe  as  warmly  as  the 
rest,  added  that  he  would  be  glad  to  act  when- 


106  OLD  BO  WEN'S  LEGACY 

ever  any  tangible  testimony  should  be  forth 
coming;  but  there  seemed  small  likelihood  of 
this.  Disappointed  but  controlled,  people  now 
began  to  disperse.  A  number  hunted  up  Peter 
Merritt,  who  had  surprised  every  one  by  coming 
to  the  front  so  unexpectedly  and  had  won  golden 
opinions.  They  gripped  him  heartily  by  the 
hand  and  said  friendly  things, — friendlier  things 
than  Peter  had  often  listened  to  in  his  twenty- 
eight  years  of  disdained,  unwatched-over  life. 
Felton,  as  it  happened,  had  for  long  been  re 
markably  free  from  important  fires  or  other 
public  emergencies  where  he  might  earlier  have 
displayed  his  mettle.  Now,  the  stress  over,  he 
had  become  again  the  shambling,  silent,  ill-con 
ditioned  youth  he  was  before,  and  he  received 
the  praises  offered  with  abashed  and  clumsy 
deprecation.  None  the  less,  his  night's  work 
had  lifted  him  permanently  upon  a  higher  and 
different  plane  in  the  estimation  of  the  villagers, 
and  a  hitherto  unknown  capacity  was  nowrecog- 
nized  by  all. 

Others,  too,  had  done  well  that  night.  In  fact, 
it  would  be  truer  to  say  that  all  had  done  so. 
People  of  their  fiber  are  able  to  meet  resource 
fully  and  successfully  the  sudden  test  of  local 
emergencies.  Each  one  had  done  his  or  her 
share  of  the  common  work,  and  knew  that  his 
neighbor  had  done  the  same.  Mr.  Eeed,  per 
haps  preoccupied  with  a  close  scrutiny  of  the 


THE  FIEE  107 

ruins  and  the  removed  stock,  addressed  few 
words  of  thanks  to  any  one.  Mr.  Kemble  said 
more,  in  his  bantering,  half-insincere  way. 
But  thanks  were  not  looked  for.  The  town 
had  merely  done  its  duty,— the  duty  of  all  to 
each,  often  more  clearly  recognized  and  ob 
served  in  a  small  community  than  on  a  larger 
and  more  complicated  scale.  Enos  Reed  and 
Peter  Merritt  remained  to  watch  the  smoldering 
ruins,  and  in  a  brief  time  Felton  was  sound 
asleep. 


VII 

AFTER-TALK 

LAWYER  CLARK  was  early  astir  in  the  morn 
ing,  and  walked  down  before  breakfast  to 
take  a  look  at  the  ruins.  Early  as  he  was, 
others  were  earlier;  and  quite  a  little  knot  of 
spectators  stood  discussing  the  affair,  while 
others  roamed  where  possible  among  the 
slowly  cooling  debris,  or  wandered  here  and 
there  gazing  at  the  neighboring  dwelling-house 
and  the  drug-store,  so  wet  and  desolate,  or  up 
at  the  stark  trunks  and  remaining  branches  of 
the  blackened  trees. 

"I  hear  they  '11  rebuild,"  Mr.  Leavitt  was 
saying. 

"  Yes ;  Kemble  says  they  ain't  goin'  t'  lose  a 
day."  It  was  Secor,  the  carpenter,  who  an 
swered.  "  I  'm  t'  begin  gettin'  out  lengths  right 
away  this  mornin'." 

"What '11  they  put  up?" 

"  Brick.    Masons  comin'  over  fr'm  Hingham." 

"  That 's  quick  work,"  commented  Mr.  Clark. 

"  Yes,  't  is.    Y'  'd  think  ol'  Reed  hed  hed  th' 

108 


AFTER-TALK  109 

hull  thing  planned  out  in  his  mind  a'ready,  al 
most.  Spoke  t'  me  'bout  it  last  night,  b'fore 
th'  flames  was  all  out,  even.  Level  man,  ol' 
Reed  is.  Keeps  his  head." 

"  Keeps  his  money  too,  gener'lly,"  commented 
another.  "  Still  I  reckon  he  did  n't  calc'late  on 
this  here  fire." 

"No,  of  course.  But  he  ain't  th'  man  t'  be 
out  on  it  much,  y'  c'n  depend." 

Enos  Reed,  who  had  had  little  sleep  that  night 
and  looked  tired,  lounged  over  from  across  the 
way,  and  he  confirmed  and  amplified  the  car 
penter's  statement  about  the  new  building. 

"  Can't  afford  t'  lose  time,"  he  said.  "  Losin' 
time 's  losin'  trade.  Losin'  trade 's  losin'  money. 
Father  's  rented  Barney  Holmes's  paint-shop, 
this  mornin',  till  th'  end  o'  th'  year  or  so ;  an' 
y'  '11  find  us  ready  f  r  trade  t'-morrow  afternoon." 

"  Was  considerable  of  the  stock  saved,  on  the 
whole  !  "  inquired  Mr.  Clark. 

"  Some  little.  I  'm  t'  drive  over  t'  Hingham 
f'r  more,  this  forenoon.  An'  we  're  sendin' 
orders  t'  Boston  an'  other  places." 

Brisk  Mr.  Pickering  had  also  stepped  up,  and 
he  heard  Enos  with  a  business  man's  admiration 
for  business  methods,  even  though  with  little 
liking  for  the  Reeds. 

"  How  much  were  you  insured  for ! "  he  asked 
Enos,  with  commercial  directness  and  interest. 

Had  Mr.  Reed  been  there,  he  might  have 


110  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

fenced  on  this,  as  the  amount  was  undeniably 
excessive.  Enos  had  no  scruples  against  the 
fencing  process,  but  he  was  taken  off  his  guard 
by  the  question  and  told  the  truth. 

Tom  Secor  was  engaged  in  explaining  some 
detail  about  the  fall  of  the  wall  to  a  newcomer, 
and  others  had  turned  to  listen.  None  heard 
the  query  nor  Enos's  reply  save  Mr.  Clark  and 
Mr.  Pickering.  The  latter  opened  his  lips  for 
an  ejaculation  of  incredulity,  but  checked  him 
self. 

"  H'm,"  was  all  he  said.  "  Then  I  judge  you 
won't  lose  much.  I  '11  walk  your  way  if  you  're 
going  back  toward  your  house,  Mr.  Clark." 

The  two  moved  off,  and  Mr.  Pickering  began 
animatedly  talking.  Enos  watched  them  dis 
trustfully,  till  a  greeting  from  Miss  Lorinda 
Park  fell  on  his  ear.  The  nervous  little  invalid 
had  done  perhaps  more  than  she  should  have 
done  in  excited  services  the  previous  night, 
and  in  addition  she  had  been  able  to  sleep  but 
little  afterward.  Her  eager,  peaked  face  looked 
wan,  and  she  walked  with  increased  difficulty. 
Yet  her  sharp,  indomitable  interest  in  all  things 
mundane  had  dragged  her  out  again  after  a 
scanty  morning  bite,  and  she  approached  the 
little  knot  of  talkers  with  receptiveness  and 
enthusiasm. 

"Well,  what  d'  you  think  of  all  this,  Miss 
Park  ? "  questioned  Tom  Secor,  cheerily. 


AFTER-TALK  111 

"  Think  !  I  think  it 's  a  good  thing.  When 
a  place  gets  old  and  unserviceable,  clear  it  out 
or  burn  it  out.  Same  with  people.  Me,  f'r 
instance." 

"  Oh,  no,"  laughed  the  other,  deprecatingly. 

"Why  not?  Ain't  it  a  good  thing  here? 
There  was  this  ol'  store,  dingy  an'  inconvenient 
an'  crowded  an'  ready  t'  fall  down  in  parts  any 
way.  An'  now  this  fire 's  stepped  in,  an'  room 's 
made  f  r  somethin'  better.  There  's  other  ol' 
houses  in  this  town  would  git  good,  th'  same 
way.  An'  I  don'  know  why  th'  same  ain't  true 
of  some  o'  their  occupants.  Me,  f  r  instance,  as 
I  said." 

"Nobody  'd  want  t'  see  you  burned  down, 
Miss  Lorindy,"  interjected  lively  Mr.  Kemble, 
who  had  strolled  up  with  his  wife  and  sister-in- 
law,  accompanied  by  several  of  the  children. 

Miss  Lorinda's  seriousness  broke  down  a  little 
at  this.  She  had  to  laugh  with  the  others,  but 
she  rallied  and  said  defiantly : 

"  Ef  I  'd  got  a  safe  insurance  on  my  soul  an' 
hed  th'  premium  receipt  locked  away  where  I 
was  sart'in  sure  of  it,  I  'd  be  willin',  seems  t' 
me."  Her  face  showed  a  spasm  of  pain,  as  her 
back  twisted  a  little. 

There  was  real  pathos  in  her  poor  little  bent 
figure  and  in  the  tone  of  bravado  with  which 
she  spoke.  Those  who  heard  her  felt  for  her 
with  a  new  discernment  and  compassion.  Miss 


112  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

Harvey  alone  was  less  impressed  with  this  feel 
ing  than  with  righteous  horror  at  the  sentiment 
uttered. 

"Lorindy  Park,"  she  remonstrated  severely, 
"  I  'm  ashamed  o'  ye.  I  do  say  it 's  a  sin  t'  talk 
so,— 'bout  dyin'  an'  all  thet,— so  light  an'  keer- 
less.  As  Pr  dyiii',  we  've  got  t'  wait  till  we  're 
asked." 

"  Same  as  with  comp'ny  bein'  helped  at  table," 
suggested  Mr.  Kemble. 

"  Somethin'  th'  same,"  she  assented  ungra 
ciously. 

"  There  's  th'  difficulty,  too,"  added  Mr.  Kem 
ble,  perceiving  more,  but  willing  to  give  the 
subject  a  lighter  turn  again,  "  of  bein'  sure  o'  y'r 
insurance." 

"It  is  a  difficulty  Pr  some,"  returned  Miss 
Park. 

"What  d'  ye  mean  by  thet,  Lorindy!"  de 
manded  Mrs.  Kemble,  alert  to  scent  attack. 

"I  hain't  no  call  t'  explain,  as  I  know  of," 
oracularly  returned  the  other,  secretly  delighted 
with  the  success  of  her  mysterious  generaliza 
tion.  "I  only  say  it  is  a  difficulty  Pr  some. 
An'  it  is." 

"I  call  it  a  shame,"  remarked  Miss  Harvey, 
"  thet  folks  can't  talk  plain  an'  straight,  without 
insinuations  an'  innuendoes.  A  burnin'  shame. 
Before  I  'd-" 

"  Pretty  well  gutted,  wa'  n't  it  1 "  deftly  inter- 


AFTER-TALK  113 

posed  good-natured  Tom  Secor,  pointing  to  the 
ruins  opposite.  "Lucky  there  wa'  n't  much 
wind." 

"  We  'd  ought  t'  hev  two  engines  in  this  town/' 
said  Miss  Harvey,  "  or  even  three.  I  've  allers 
said  so.  T'  think  of  tryin'  t'  do  with  one! 
We  'd  've  hed  th'  fire  out  in  no  time.  It  's  a 
burnin'  shame  thet —  " 

"  A  burnt  shame,  you  mean,"  Mr.  Kemble  put 
in  jocosely.  "Nex'  town  meetin',  Sophrony, 
I  '11  propose  a  vote  fr  twenty  new  engines,  an' 
we  '11  keep  'em  all  ranged  in  line  'round  th' 
new  store  an'  our  house.  There  won't  no  Gar- 
rett  Coe  git  ahead  o'  thet." 

"  Scoundrelly  fellow ! "  declaimed  Mrs.  Kem 
ble,  with  strong  emphasis. 

"  He  'd  ought  t'  be  jailed,"  added  her  sister. 
"It  's  a  sin  fr  th'  town  t'  leave  him  at  large 
like  this.  I  'm  s'prised  there  ain't  more  sperrit 
in  Felton." 

"There  's  sperrit  enough;  but  there  's  sense 
too,"  observed  Miss  Park.  "  Hiram  Wheeler  an' 
Nathan  Bradbury  an'  them  were  right  enough. 
Jmay  know  't  was  Coe ;  an'  you  may  know,  an' 
th'  rest  of  us.  But  th'  law  don't  know." 

"  Thet  ain't  th'  p'int,"  remarked  Secor,  desir 
ous  of  defending  his  adhesion  to  the  Bradbury 
side.  "Th'  p'int  is  thet  we  don't  none  of  us 
know.  We  may  feel  sure,  an'  all  thet;  but 
knowin'  's  a  different  thing." 


114  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

"  He 's  ugly  enough  t'  've  done  it,"  commented 
Mrs.  Kemble,  acidly. 

"  Thet  's  true  enough ;  but  it  don't  show  he 
did." 

"I  was  up  there,  th'  other  day,"  said  Miss 
Harvey, "  tryin'  t'  c'llect  f  r  th'  missionary  s'ciety. 
He  came  in  while  I  was  there.  Spoke  cross 
enough  t'  his  wife  'bout  not  sparin'  money  fr 
any  sech  things  as  missions." 

"I  guess  she  has  a  hard  time,"  agreed  Mr. 
Kemble.  "  Has  t'  keep  at  it  pretty  stiddy." 

"No  more  'n  th'  rest  of  us  hev  to,"  his  wife 
said  sharply. 

"  Oh,  it  's  her  dooty,  same  as  any  one's,"  he 
agreed  hastily.  "  Pity  thet  dooty  's  apt  t'  be  so 
domineerin'  in  this  world." 

"  I  'd  like  t'  know  where  you  men-folks  'd  be 
ef  't  wa'  n't,"  rejoined  his  wife,  triumphantly. 
"I  ain't  goin'  t'  waste  any  sympathy  on  Sally 
Coe.  Not  thet  I  'd  excuse  her  husband.  But, 
after  all,  she  's  only  doin'  work,  like  we  all 
do." 

"  Oh,  't  ain't  th'  work,  I  s'pose.  There 's  other 
things  thet  add  up,  sometimes."  Mr.  Kemble 
was  unusually  sober-spoken  for  the  moment. 
But  his  moods  did  not  lie  deep.  "  Better  not 
add  'em  up,  I  dare  say.  Add  up  blessin's ;  an' 
as  fr  troubles,  jest  don't  keep  any  books,  an' 
never  stop  t'  take  'count  o'  stock.  Thet  's  my 
philosophy." 


AFTEK-TALK  115 

"A  very  poor  one,  George  Kemble,"  com 
mented  Miss  Harvey,  with  severity.  "I  'm 
ashamed  t'  hear  ye  pr'fessin'  it.  Ain't  troubles 
f  r  chastenin' !  An'  what  right  've  we  got  t'  take 
no  notice  of  'em  1 " 

"  Well,  it  's  better  than  it  is  t'  nurse  'em  an' 
coddle  'em  an'  bring  'em  up  on  a  bottle  till  they 
git  big  an'  settle  down  t'  stay;  an'  t'  open  a 
foundlin'  asylum  f'r  other  people's  troubles  an' 
add  them  t'  tli'  nursery  too." 

"  George,  who  does  thet,  I  'd  like  t'  know  ? " 
demanded  his  wife,  her  eyes  keen  behind  her 
spectacles. 

"  Nobody  in  this  town,  's  fur  as  I  c'n  say,"  he 
rejoined  ironically.  "But  I  've  beared  tell 
there  's  sech  in  other  places  in  th'  county." 
He  winked  at  Tom  Secor,  and  crossed  the  street 
to  interview  Mr.  Reed,  who  was  coming  up. 

Comment  on  the  fire  and  the  night's  occur 
rences  was  of  course  universal  in  the  commu 
nity;  and  the  various  breakfast-tables  were 
occasions  for  innumerable  narratives  of  per 
sonal  incidents  and  experiences.  There  was 
little  but  hostility  expressed  for  Garrett  Coe, 
who  was  accepted  on  nearly  all  sides  as  the 
author  of  the  outrage.  The  probable  effects  of 
the  fire  were  talked  over  from  every  point  of. 
view :  its  bearing  on  the  firm's  immediate  busi 
ness,  the  size  and  appearance  of  the  building 
that  would  supersede  the  old  one,  the  efficiency 


116  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

of  the  volunteer  fire  corps  as  tested  so  severely, 
the  trials  of  the  unfortunate  adjoining  neigh 
bor  whose  house  stood  this  morning  sadly 
dismantled,  and  the  individual  coolness  and 
brave  work  of  the  various  helpers  at  and  around 
the  scene,  not  forgetting  Peter  Merritt. 

The  latter,  in  fact,  was  the  subject  of  one 
conversation  in  particular  which  concerned  him 
more  closely  than  the  others,  though  he  of 
course  knew  nothing  of  this.  It  was  between 
Ann  Mead  and  Miss  Jewett.  Ann  was  in  a 
state  of  suppressed  nervousness  and  flurry 
all  during  breakfast.  It  was  an  unprecedentedly 
poor  breakfast.  The  coffee  was  unsettled,  the 
eggs  were  hard-boiled,  the  toast  was  almost  in 
cinerated,  the  piece  of  mackerel  was  wretchedly 
broiled,  and  only  the  biscuits,  baked  the  day 
before,  were  really  impeccable.  Miss  Jewett, 
however,  ate  the  meal  gravely,  without  com 
plaint,  for  she  knew  her  help's  ways,  and  per 
fectly  understood  the  effects  of  last  night's 
excitement.  She  herself  was  tired,  as  all  in 
Felton  were,  and  she  wisely  was  little  disposed 
to  criticize  shortcomings  arising,  partly  at  least, 
from  a  similar  cause  in  another. 

Ann  had  said  little  about  the  fire  while  bring 
ing  in  the  breakfast,  and  the  little  she  had  said 
was  noticeably  of  generalities.  Miss  Jewett 
discussed  it  with  her  from  this  point  of  view. 
As  the  second  and  last  cup  of  weak  coffee  was 


AFTEK-TALK  117 

being  finished,  however,  Ann,  who  had  been  in 
and  out,  said: 

"  What  did  y'  think  o'  Peter  Merritt  ? » 

"  Splendid !  "  said  Miss  Jewett,  enthusiasti 
cally.  "There  was  n't  a  one  there  that  did 
better  work." 

Ann  flushed  with  pleasure. 

"  And  the  way  he  got  you  up  from  that  edge !  " 
went  on  the  other.  "  I  declare  I  was  thankful, 
as  I  told  you  last  night  coming  home.  It  was 
a  ticklish  place." 

"Th'  sparks  was  droppin'  pretty  fast,"  as 
sented  Ann. 

"  Indeed  they  were.  They  burned  your  dress 
badly,  as  it  was.  There  's  my  old  black  cash 
mere  hanging  in  the  hall  wardrobe  up-stairs.  I 
was  going  to  make  it  over  a  little  and  wear 
it  some  more,  but  I  want  you  to  have  it 
now." 

Ann  protested  with  thanks  and  sincerity,  but 
absently.  Her  thoughts  were  evidently  at  pres 
ent  on  another  topic.  Soon  she  said : 

"  Don't— don't  Peter's  doin's— make  ye—  " 

"Make  me  think  differently  about  what  we 
talked  of  last  summer  1 " 

"  Yes,"  blurted  the  other. 

Miss  Jewett  moved  her  chair  a  little  away 
from  the  table  and  sat  back  in  it. 

"No,  Ann.  They  don't  in  the  least.  Yes, 
they  do  in  one  way,  certainly.  I  never  gauged 


118  OLD  BO  WEN'S  LEGACY 

Peter's  capacity  in  an  emergency.  I  did  n't 
give  him  half  credit  enough.  It 's  been  quite  a 
lesson  to  me." 

"  Same  with  all  th'  town,  I  guess,"  observed 
the  other,  with  an  odd  little  vicarious  pride. 

"  Yes.  We  owe  him  quite  a  little  for  our  mis- 
judgment.  The  fact  is,  we  're  too  quick  to 
misjudge,  anyway.  'Most  every  one  is.  I  keep 
teaching  myself  that,  every  year, — every  day, 
almost ;  and  yet  I  go  right  on  falling  into  the 
same  trap.  Here 's  a  special  case ;  and  I  wonder 
if  it  '11  teach  me  anything." 

"I  s'pose  I  thought  th'  same,  more  or  less. 
An'  so  it 's— it 's  occurred  t'  me,  mebbe  you  an' 
I  was  wrong  too  'bout  thet  other  subjec'." 

"It  does  n't  follow,"  Miss  Jewett  said  de 
cidedly;  "and  I  can't  think  we  were,  a  particle. 
Peter  's  shown  the  stuff  that 's  in  him.  If  he  'd 
been  in  th'  war,  we  'd  've  heard  of  him.  He  'd 
likely  've  come  back  captain  of  his  company, 
at  the  very  least.  He  '11  shine  in  action,  in 
emergency.  I  've  known  a  few  persons  like 
that." 

"  Well,  but—  " 

"  But  this  other  thing  's  another  matter.  It 
concerns  just  plain,  humdrum  living,  and  cer 
tain  other  qualities  are  needed  for  that.  Peter 
has  n't  those." 

"Howc'n  y'tell?" 

"  You  mean  I  'm  as  liable  to  be  mistaken  in 


AFTER-TALK  119 

one  set  of  qualities  as  in  the  other  ?  I  may  be, 
of  course.  But  I  don't  think  so.  You  want  my 
views,  and  the  dear  knows  I  'd  like  to  have  them 
favorable  ones, — especially  after  last  night's 
lesson.  But  the  two  things  are  n't  the  same." 

"  Y'r  views  are  '  favorable '  t'  me,  Miss  Jewett, 
whatever  they  are,"  said  honest  Ann. 

"  Yes,  they  truly  are.  And  to  Peter  too,  for 
that  matter.  How  should  I  condemn  faults  in 
either  one  of  you  ?  If  two  people  care  enough, 
probably  faults  ought  n't  to  stand  between, — 
though  I  don't  say  that  's  always  so.  But  I 
don't  really  believe  there  's  any  such  caring 
between  you  and  Peter,  Ann." 

"  No,  I  can't  say 's  there  is,  exac'ly,  of  course," 
admitted  the  other,  meditatively. 

"  Well,  apart  from  it,  you  have  n't  a  bit  more 
in  common  than  you  had  yesterday  or  last  sum 
mer.  You  've  no  more  need  of  him  than  you 
had  then.  And  he 's  no  better  suited  to  you  for 
a  husband  than  then.  There  're  qualities  in 
Peter's  character  that  I  did  n't  suspect  and 
did  n't  allow  for.  I  admit  that  and  I  blame 
myself  a  deal  for  not  having  given  him  credit 
for  them.  But  the  character  itself  remains 
what  we  took  it  to  be." 

"Ye-e-es,"  said  Ann,  half  doubtfully. 
"  Though  I  don't  see  how  a  body  c'n  jedge  of 
a  hull  character  an'  make  a  mistake  in  th'  part. 
What  shows  it  I " 


120  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

"  Facts.  Poor  Peter !  We  know  his  difficul 
ties  of  course,— first  with  old  Mr.  Bo  wen,  and 
now  since  he  has  gone  to  work  sawing  marble  at 
the  quarries.  He  has  n't  had  many  chances  to 
show  up.  But — well,  there  are  some  things  that 
lie  on  the  surface  somehow." 

"  Yes,  'm,"  said  the  other. 

"  It 's  a  matter  for  yourself  to  decide,  Ann,— 
wholly.  Don't  think  I  'm  presuming  to  decide 
it  for  you.  I  'm  only  advising, —as  far  as  an  out 
sider  can.  Sometimes  that  can  be  wisely  done ; 
sometimes  it  may  be  wrong  and  biased.  We  're 
none  of  us  omniscient ;  and  advising  is  always 
pokerish,  at  best." 

"  Oh,  no ;  not  thet,  Miss  Jewett,"  deprecated 
Ann. 

"  You  think  it  over  in  this  way :  Do  you  want 
Peter  Merritt  for  himself  and  because  he  is 
Peter  Merritt  and  no  one  else  ?  or  has  he  simply 
set  you  thinking  of  the  whole  general  idea  of 
marriage  and  wondering  whether  you  were  n't 
perhaps  missing  every  woman's  natural  destiny  ! 
And  you  must  turn  both  those  questions  the 
other  way  too, — about  his  wanting  you,  you 
know,  and  all  that.  And  the  question  of  ways 
and  means  ought  always  to  creep  in,  to  a  right 
and  fair  extent,  too." 

"  An'  last  night  an'  what  he  did  an'  all  thet  ? " 
Her  imagination  had  clearly  been  caught  by  her 
knight-errant's  behavior. 


AFTER-TALK  121 

"No;  not  in  that  sense.  You  can't  have 
houses  burning  down  every  day." 

"Yes,  'm,"  said  Ann,  dutifully.  "Thank 
ye,  'm." 

And  she  went  back  to  her  work. 


VIII 

KEVOLTJTION 

COE  had  gone  off  to  bed  before  'Vinie  re 
turned,  on  the  night  of  the  fire.  Her 
mother  was  sitting  up  for  her,  a  little  anxiously, 
and  eagerly  absorbed  the  details  which  the  girl 
proceeded  to  pour  forth. 

'Vinie  gave  a  vivid  picture  of  the  scene. 
She  omitted  all  mention  of  her  father's  alleged 
implication  in  the  affair;  but  her  mother,  un 
knowingly  but  persistently,  pressed  for  light  on 
how  the  blaze  could  have  originated  and  what 
people  had  said  about  it ;  and  almost  before  the 
girl,  full  of  the  topic,  knew  what  was  said,  the 
secret  was  out  and  Mrs.  Coe  knew  of  what  das 
tardly  work  her  husband  was  believed  to  be 
guilty. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  the  impul 
sive  daughter  growing  more  and  more  repen 
tantly  terrified.  But  Mrs.  Coe  took  the  matter 
with  surprisingly  little  feeling. 

"  It 's  a  shame  they  sh'd  say  sech  things,  of 
122 


REVOLUTION  123 

course,"  said  she.  "  But  people  will  talk  ag'inst 
somebody,  an'  I  know  Garrett  ain't  been  alto 
gether  liked  by  a  good  many." 

'Vinie  was  not  a  little  astonished  at  this  quiet 
reception  of  her  ugly  facts,  and  relieved  that 
her  indiscretion  had  apparently  not  pained  and 
agitated  her  mother  so  greatly  after  all.  She 
remembered  that  her  mother  had  of  late  ap 
peared  a  little  changed  in  some  respects.  Not 
in  a  way  that  could  be  exactly  defined;  but  it 
seemed  as  though  the  farmer's  surliness  and  her 
unremitting  work  were  more  and  more  deaden 
ing  Mrs.  Coe's  softness  and  responsiveness  and 
interest  in  daily  happenings  and  even  her  real 
tenderness  toward  her  husband.  A  dulled,  al 
most  hard  tone  had  crept  into  her  voice  in  the 
daily  little  nagging  discussions  with  the  fault 
finding  farmer,  and  'Vinie  had  even  seen  her 
mother  once  or  twice  steadily  regarding  Garrett 
with  a  new,  strangely  awakening  discernment 
in  her  gaze.  The  girl  had  not  analyzed  her 
impressions  at  the  times,  but  now  they  seemed 
oddly  to  present  and  catalogue  themselves. 

" Did  y'  speak  t'  Burt?"  asked  Mrs.  Coe. 

"No.    I  did  n't  want  to." 

"Why  not!" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Y'  've  tried  Burt  a  good  deal  this  fall,  I  'm 
af eared,"  said  the  mother,  in  a  troubled  tone. 
"  Half  th'  time  he  comes,  y'  won't  see  him ;  an7 


124  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

th'  other  half,  y»  act  queer  an'  stand-offish,— 
what  I  've  seen  of  it." 

"  I  don't  care,  mamma.     I  just  can't  help  it." 

"  Are  y'  out  with  him  ? " 

"  No,  I  don't  know  as  I  am,  exactly." 

"  Well,  what  is  it !  Do  tell  y'r  mother,  'Vinie. 
Y'  need  n't  mind  me.  Don't  y'  like  Burt  1 " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  like  him,  but—" 

"  True  an'  straightforward,  ain't  he  1 " 

"  Perfectly !  "  averred  the  girl,  with  energy 
and  a  certain  admiration.  "  Only — " 

"Only  what!" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  ma.  Only  nothing,  I 
guess.  Really,  there  is  n't  anything." 

Her  mother  was  not  satisfied,  but  'Vinie  could 
never  be  pressed  for  confidences  beyond  a  cer 
tain  point,  and  Mrs.  Coe  always  had  known 
instinctively  when  that  point  was  reached. 
Her  knowledge  of  this  had  contributed  more 
than  she  knew  to  the  close  relations  subsisting 
between  them,  and  to  'Vinie's  instinctive  trust 
and  repose  in  her  mother's  sympathy.  It  was 
a  virtual  recognition,  on  the  mother's  part,  of 
the  child's  entity,  her  individuality,  and,  of  late 
years,  her  florescent  womanhood;  and  the  in 
tense,  brooding,  self-conscious,  shy  girl  dimly 
recognized  this  and  was  aboundingly  grateful 
for  it. 

Long  after  going  to  bed,  that  night,  Mrs.  Coe 
lay  wide  awake,  her  unseeing  eyes  staring  up  in 


REVOLUTION  125 

the  dark  to  the  ceiling  overhead.  Her  mind 
was  churning  over  many  things,  though  none 
consecutively,  and  in  her  restless  dreams  images 
of  her  husband  and  of  her  daughter  and  of  Burt 
came  and  went,  teasing  her,  as  it  seemed,  with 
imperious  problems  of  life  that  she  had  always 
put  aside  or  never  thoroughly  solved. 

Even  her  troublous  sleep  was  not  undis 
turbed,  for  Grarrie,  who  with  his  brother  slept 
in  the  room  adjoining,  was  feverish  and  un 
quiet,  and  his  mother  kept  slipping  in  at  inter 
vals  to  look  after  him.  The  child,  who  usually 
slept  well,  would  drop  off  into  a  light  slumber, 
and  then  awake  suddenly  with  a  start  and  a 
muffled  cry  which  drew  his  mother  quickly  to 
his  side.  Finally  he  fell  asleep  more  soundly ; 
Mrs.  Coe,  returning  to  her  own  bed,  was 
blessedly  enabled  to  do  the  same;  and  the  re 
mainder  of  the  eventful  yet  lagging  night  wore 
away. 

Coe  was  astir  at  six,  and  as  usual  made  little 
ceremony  of  rousing  his  wife  at  the  same  time 
that  he  heavily  unrolled  himself  and  got  out  of 
bed.  He  was  moody  and  taciturn,  and  little 
was  said  by  either  husband  or  wife  during 
breakfast.  The  boys  were  still  sleeping,  and 
Mrs.  Coe  had  let  'Vinie  sleep  also.  No  allusion 
was  made  to  the  subject  of  the  fire. 

When  the  meal  was  finished,  the  farmer  said : 

"  I  want  some  lunch  sent  out  after  us  to-day. 


126  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

You  hear  ?  We  're  fixin'  th'  f encin'  over  by  tli' 
other  pasture,  an'  it  's  too  fur  t'  stop  an'  come 
f'r  dinner." 

"  All  right,  Garrett,"  she  assented. 

Her  acquiescence  irritated  him.     It  often  did. 

"An'  I  don't  want  you  comin'  out  with  it, 
either,"  he  went  on  harshly,  "  th'  way  y'  did  th' 
other  day,  wastin'  time  thet  y'  c'd  be  usin'  here. 
You  stick  t'  this  part  o'  th'  premises.  There  's 
enough  t'  do,  ain't  there  ?  Y'  've  allers  said  so." 

"  Yes,  there  's  enough  t'  do,"  she  replied  ab 
sently,  partly  blunted  to  his  tone,  partly  desir 
ous  of  avoiding  conflict. 

Her  assent  was  unfortunate,  though  she  was 
far  from  echoing  his  words  complainingly  or 
sardonically  or  indeed  consciously  at  all.  But 
he  grew  angrier,  and  with  the  anger  came  the 
will  to  provoke  hers  in  return  at  any  cost  and 
break  through  this  passivity.  The  passivity 
annoyed  him  as  much  as  its  opposite  would 
have  done.  Garrett  Coe  did  not  realize  his  own 
state  of  mind  toward  his  wife.  Human  nature 
often  strangely  hates  those  whom  it  hurts,  and 
then  it  strives  to  hurt  the  more.  This  man 
had  hurt  this  woman,  in  countless  little  sure, 
diversified,  and  merciless  ways,  for  long  years 
past;  at  first,  accidentally  or  unintentionally 
and  with  regret;  then  with  encroaching  delib- 
erateness,  daily  adding  to  the  infinite  debt  of 
just  compunction  and  reparation  he  owed  her, 


REVOLUTION  127 

while  yet  writhing  resentfully  under  the  burden 
of  the  debt.  The  homely  saying  that  one  may 
as  well  be  hung  for  an  old  sheep  as  a  lamb 
operates,  powerful  though  unsuspected,  in  many 
a  hidden  corner  of  human  emotions  and  activi 
ties,  and  nowhere  perhaps  more  curiously  and 
cruelly  than  in  this  domain  of  the  bruised  affec 
tions,  where  the  one  who  has  inflicted  one  blow 
feels  the  more  steeled  and  spurred,  sometimes, 
to  the  infliction  of  others. 

Coe  was  one  who  brooded.  In  his  daily  work, 
his  restless  mind  kept  revolving  ceaselessly  the 
various  ideas  and  incidents  that  were  at  the  time 
before  it.  And  chief  among  his  mental  material 
for  this  purpose  had  come  to  be  the  vexatious- 
ness  of  petty  things,  and  the  shortcomings  of 
people,  particularly  his  wife.  Few  points 
though  poor  Mrs.  Coe  presented  for  his  grie 
vance,  these  points  were  sedulously,  mechani 
cally,  half-unconsciously  revolved  and  enlarged 
upon  by  the  farmer's  nervous,  brooding,  inimical 
mind  during  the  long  working-hours  of  morning 
and  afternoon.  He  could  thus  successfully 
goad  himself  into  a  state  of  resentment  and 
willingness  to  inflict  pain,  which  grew  ever 
easier  and  more  chronic.  That  he  did  hurt  his 
wife,  and  that  she  never  struck  back,  carried  no 
appeasement,  but  rather  the  reverse,  until  his 
habitual  feeling  and  manner  toward  her  had 
departed  from  the  lines  of  that  of  their  early 


128  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

married  days  more  widely  and  incredibly  than 
either  of  them  had  ever  realized  or  than  they 
realized  even  now.  Mrs.  Coe  knew,  in  a  vague, 
hopeless,  uncomprehending  way,  that  matters 
were  fatally  ajar,  that  their  lives  were  embit 
tered,  that  their  ways  were  apart.  But  she  knew 
not  why.  Had  she  known,  she  could  not  have 
remedied. 

'Vinie,  with  her  different,  quick,  intuitive 
grasp  and  intense  sensitiveness  to  impressions, 
understood  more  than  her  mother,  though  she 
could  not  have  put  her  thoughts  into  words. 
But  these  and  many  other  thoughts  were  with 
her,  as  she  stood,  poised  and  fluttering,  in  the 
sweet,  flowery  archway  between  youth  and 
adulthood;  and  her  maiden  dreams  were  not 
all  of  the  garden  behind  her,  but  in  part  of 
the  terrifying,  hard-trodden  road  of  life  that 
stretched  away  before  her  into  untried  distance. 

Coe's  voice  broke  in  upon  his  wife's  momen 
tary  abstraction. 

"'Nough  t'  do,  is  there?"  he  echoed  sneer- 
ingly.  "  Well,  I  'd  hev  less,  as  well 's  you,  ef  we  'd 
never  married,  I  reckon.  Thet  's  over  an'  gone. 
Now  'bout  thet  lunch-pail :  you  send  one  o'  th' 
boys  out  with  it.  They  '11  be  up  fr'm  school, 
won't  they?" 

"Yes,  but  I  'm  af eared  th'  recess  won't  give 
'em  time.  Le'  me  bring  it,  Garrett.  I  'd  love 
to ;  an'  I  c'n  catch  up  on  th'  work." 


EEVOLUTION  129 

"  You  send  Game,  I  tell  ye.  What 's  th'  use 
o'  two  lazy  boys  'round  th'  place  ef  they  can't 
do  a  mite  o'  work  now  and  then ! " 

"Th'  boys  work  hard,  out  of  hours,  on  th' 
farm  an'  here  'bout  th'  house.  You  know  they 
do,"  said  the  mother,  the  spirit  of  defense 
that  could  not  be  roused  on  her  own  behalf 
rising  for  her  off  spring.  "  Besides,  Garrie  ain't 
well." 

"  What 's  th'  matter  with  him!" 

"  I  don'  know.  He  slept  reel  uneasy  all  las' 
night.  Tossed  'round  c'nsider'ble.  He  ain't 
over  strong,  y'  know,  an'  I  hope  there  ain't  any- 
thin'  th'  matter  with  him." 

"  Nonsense !  He  's  shammin'.  Wants  t'  git 
out  o'  goin'  t'  school.  He  comes  it  over  ye  thet 
way  too  often.  Le'  me  see  him.  I  '11  hev  him 
up."  Coe  strode  toward  the  door  to  go  up 
stairs. 

In  his  heart  he  was  quite  as  deeply  attached 
to  the  boy,  after  his  way,  as  was  his  wife, — more 
deeply  even  than  he  knew.  His  threat  of  harsh 
ness  meant  little,  for  he  would  never  have  laid 
really  rough  hands  on  the  sleeping  lad,  nor  per 
haps  even  have  aroused  him.  But  he  seized 
upon  the  menace  as  a  means  of  strife,  with 
devilish  ingenuity. 

Mrs.  Coe  sprang  forward. 

"  Garrett !     Y'  must  n't  go  up ! "  she  cried. 

" What 'st' hinder?" 

9 


130  OLD  BO  WEN'S  LEGACY 

"  Y'  must  n't !  "  She  got  between  him  and 
the  door. 

He  had  a  curious  satisfaction  in  his  own 
rising  anger. 

"Must  n't!"  he  snorted.  "Well,  I  guess  I 
will !  I  '11  go  up  there,  an'  I  '11  hev  them  boys 
out  o'  bed  feet  foremost  in  jest  half  a  minute, 
an'  no  more  playin'  off  an'  makin'  b'lieve  sick !  " 
He  was  pushing  through  the  doorway,  genu 
inely  in  earnest  this  time. 

"  No,  y'  sha'n't !  "     She  barred  his  way  firmly. 

"  Move  away,  Sally !  "  he  said  warningly. 

"  I  won't.    Y'  can't  go." 

He  took  hold  of  her  thin  arms  with  iron 
hands. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  touched  her 
in  violence.  At  the  grasp,  unguessed  whirl 
winds  of  feeling  were  released  within  them  both. 
His  was  that  of  a  beast  who  at  last  grips  his 
patiently  stalked  prey.  Hers — it  was  as  the 
clash  of  worlds  and  the  breaking  up  of  the  deeps. 
He  turned  her  slowly  back  into  the  room,  and 
with  a  careful,  deliberate  shove,  sent  her  swiftly 
backward  toward  a  wide  rocking-chair.  She 
reeled,  struck  its  edge,  and  fell  into  it. 

"  It  's  my  house,"  he  said  fiercely,  "  an'  I  'm 
master  in  it,— not  you.  You  git  t'  y'r  work. 
Thet  's  your  place." 

She  sat  panting  with  quicker  and  quicker 
gasps  for  a  full  half-minute  without  moving. 


REVOLUTION  131 

He  stood  glaring  down  at  her.  As  her  strained, 
staring  eyes  met  his  in  return,  something  was 
in  their  gaze  that  was  there  never  before,  and 
he  moved  back  a  step  involuntarily  as  he  him 
self,  through  his  excitement,  dimly  perceived 
it. 

There  was  for  the  moment  no  sound  save  her 
quick  breathing.  Her  hands  were  tightening 
and  loosening  their  grasp  of  the  rocker's  arms. 

"  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ? "  she  wailed  out,  and 
then  was  silent  again. 

Coe  had  really  done  more  than  he  meant,  and 
was  a  little  startled  at  it. 

He  turned  toward  the  kitchen  door. 

"  Git  up  an'  look  after  th'  boys  y'rself,  ef  y' 
want  to,"  he  said  sulkily.  "A-burstin'  out  on 
me  like  thet !  " 

"  Garrett !  "  she  called,  rising  to  her  feet  with 
an  effort.  "  Come  here." 

There  was  something  authoritative  in  her 
tone,  and  he  obeyed  perforce. 

"  Set  down  there." 

"What  fur?" 

"  Set  down  there ! " 

He  did  so. 

Breathing  heavily,  she  stood  over  him  as  he 
had  just  stood  over  her. 

"D'  y'  know  what  y'  've  done!"  she  asked 
tensely. 

"What  d'y'meanr' 


132  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

"  I  '11  tell  ye  as  soon 's  I  git  my  idees  straight. 
Somethin'  's  happened." 

"Nothin'  's  happened,  either,— 'cept  thet  you 
went  a  leetle  too  fur." 

"  I  did  n't  go  fur  enough,"  she  said,  her  eyes 
dilating  strangely.  "I  've  never  gone  fur 
enough  sence  we  were  married.  I  've  got  t'  go 
further  now,  t'  make  up  fr  it." 

"Y"d  better  not." 

"  Yes,"  she  repeated  agitatedly,  "  thet 's  what 
it  is.  Th'  more  I  've  held  back,  th'  further 
you  've  tried  t'  go,  till  it  's  got  a  settled  habit. 
Not  thet  I  knew  I  was  holdin'  back,  exac'ly; 
but 't  was  jest  th'  same." 

"  I  don'  know  what  y'  're  talkin'  'bout,"  he  said 
impatiently. 

"  I  'm  only  b'ginnin'  t'  find  out  myself.  Y'  've 
kind  o'  doused  me  awake  with  cold  water,  some 
how  ;  an'  I  'm  all  shiverin'  an'  gaspin'." 

"  Nonsense ! " 

"  But  I  'm  openin'  my  eyes  at  th'  same  time, 
an'  I  'm  seein'  all  sorts  o'  things."  She  gave  a 
quick,  writhing  shudder.  "  I  'm  seein'  what  kind 
of  a  life  I  've  been  livin',  an'  what  you  've  been 
makin'  o'  me ;  an'  things  'bout  you  y'rself  thet  I 
never  reelized  b'fore,  somehow.  An', — oh,  it 's 
awful !  "  Her  voice  rose  to  an  excited,  almost 
despairing  cry. 

"  We  ain't  been  husband  an'  wife,"  she  burst 
out.  "We  've  been  master  an'  help.  Thet  's 


REVOLUTION  133 

what  I  've  been, — a  help:  bound  out  f'r  life 
instead  o'  three  years  or  seven  years;  an'  no 
wages.  An'  y'  've  scolded  an'  browbeaten  me, 
an'  now  y'  've  struck  me  accordin' !  " 

"  I  did  n't  strike  ye." 

"  Pushed,  then.  Shoved.  It 's  th'  same  thing. 
Wuss,  p'r'aps,  'cause  y'  c'd  stop  an'  think.  But 
't  ain't  th'  push.  Thet  's  one  thing, — th'last, — th' 
hardest,  maybe.  But  there  's  a  thousand  gone 
b'fore.  An'  they  're  all  comin'  crowdin'  up  now." 

"I  never  teched  ye  b'fore.  An'  't  wa'  n't 
nothin'  this  time  t'  make  a  fuss  over." 

"  There 's  other  things  than  techin'.  There 's 
speakin';  an'  thinkin';  an'  actin'.  Thet  's  all 
my  life  's  been,  Grarrett  Coe,  an'  now  I  'm  jest 
seein'  it.  But  I  'm  seein'  it  mighty  clear,  all  of 
a  sudden." 

She  was  growing  more  and  more  aroused, 
rather  than  less,  and  he  looked  up  at  her  with 
vague  alarm.  He  made  a  move  to  rise,  but  a 
motion  from  her  peremptorily  forbade  it,  and 
he  sank'  back  with  sullen,  unwonted  docility. 

"  F'r  a  good  many  years,  now,"  she  hurried 
on,  her  words  escaping  impetuously  yet  clearly, 
"  y'  've  been  gittin'  harder  an'  harder,  an'  y'  Ve 
taken  it  out  on  me.  Y'  've  f'rgotten  all  'bout 
carin'  f'r  me  th'  least  bit.  Y'  've  gone  more  an' 
more  out  o'  y'r  way  t'  peck  at  me,  an'  scold  an' 
storm  an'  complain.  But  more  than  thet  's  th' 
idee  thet  y'  hed  th'  mind  t'  do  it.  It 's  got  t'  be 


134  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

a  habit.  An'  y'  've  traveled  so  fur  f r'm  th'  way 
y'  felt  when  'Vinie  was  born,  f'r  instance,  thet 
y'  never  c'd  git  back  ef  y'  wanted  to.  Thet  's 
what  I  'm  seein'." 

"  'Pears  t'  me  you  're  traveling  too." 

"  I  am.  I  'm  travelin'  as  fur  in  these  five 
minutes  as  you  've  been  travelin'  these  eighteen 
years.  I  've  got  to,  t'  ketch  up.  An'  there  's 
more  travelin'  ahead  o'  me." 

"Oh,  come,  let  's  quit  this,"  he  said  impa 
tiently,  yet  uneasily,  rising  this  time  with  de 
termination,  and  facing  her.  "  I  've  got  work 
t'  do,  an'  you  hev  too." 

She  confronted  him  firmly. 

"The  work  c'n  wait,"  she  said  rapidly. 
"  Yours  kin,  an'  mine 's  got  to.  There 's  things 
t'  say  an'  do  b'fore  you  or  I  leave  this  room, 
G-arrett.  No !  y'  can't  go."  She  barred  his  way 
again,  dauntlessly.  "  An'  don't  you  lay  a  finger 
on  me,  this  time." 

He  did  not  dream  of  doing  so.  She  seemed 
taboo,  as  she  stood  there,  her  whole  being 
aroused  into  excitement,  quivering  all  through 
with  the  defiant  warning,  "  noli  me  tangere."  He 
stood  before  her,  angry,  yet  arrested,  cowed, 
mastered. 

She  gave  a  harsh,  mirthless  laugh  as  she 
watched  him. 

"  It 's  th'  last  time  y'  '11  try  thet  on,  I  guess," 
she  said  decisively.  A  strange,  fierce  contempt 


EEVOLUTION  .  135 

was  gathering  in  her  eyes,  and  she  seemed  to 
see  him  in  a  myriad  new  lights  as  he  stood  there 
silent,  returning  her  gaze  with  angry  discom 
posure.  Her  whirling  thoughts  were  ordering 
and  marshaling  themselves  momently,  far  be 
yond  his  power  to  arrest  or  govern. 

"How  was  it  I  did  n't  see  it!"  she  cried. 
"  How  is  it  I  'm  knowin'  it  now  f 'r  th'  fust  time  ? 
Is  it  the  same  with  other  women?  Are  they 
jest  help,  too?  Is  it  all  so?  Ain't  there  any 
real  marriage  ?  " 

She  paused  again,  panting  a  little  with  the 
uprush  of  emotions. 

"Yes,  there  is,"  she  went  on,  answering  her 
own  query  with  positiveness.  "  There  was  with 
us,  in  th'  early  days.  Where  has  it  gone! 
What  've  we  done  to  it?  Somethin'!  What 
is  it?  'T  was  too  precious  t'  lose.  An'  it  's 
mighty  hard  t'  find  ag'in,  I  take  it." 

"  There,  now,  Sally,"  he  interrupted.  "  Give 
over  talkin'.  You  let  me  out.  I  've  got  to — " 

" i  Git  t'  work '  ?  "  she  said  ironically,  repeating 
his  worn  formula.  "  Sounds  familiar.  An'  I  'd 
ought  to,  too,  y'  think?  Well,  I  won't.  It  's 
been  l  git  t'  y'r  work,' l  git  t'  y'r  work,'  f'r  a  good 
while  stiddy  now,  an'  mebbe  it 's  time  t'  stop 
gittin'  f  r  once." 

"Don't  I  git  t'  mine,  jest  as  reg'lar?" 

"  Yes ;  but  I  don't  tell  ye  to.  There  's  a  big 
difference." 


136  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

"P'r'aps  I  don't  need  tellin',"  he  growled. 

"  P'r'aps  I  did  n't  either ;  but  y'  never  tried 
me  t'  see.  Jest  think  of  it  a  minute.  Here 
we  've  been  .married  twenty  year,  goin'  on 
twenty-one.  We  've  hed  ups  an'  downs,  chiefly 
downs," — he  felt  the  sting  of  the  allusion  to  his 
lack  of  success, — "we  've  hed  bad  things,  an' 
good  things,  too,  come  to  us ;  we  've  hed  seven 
childern,  an'  four  of  'em  've  been  laid  away  in 
th'  graveyard," — her  voice  broke  a  little, — "  an' 
it  ought  t'  've  brought  us  closer.  An'  has  it  ? 
I  want  t'  ask.  Hev  you  hed  any  thin'  f  r  me,  as 
fur  back  's  we  c'n  remember,  but  grumble, 
grumble,  grumble,  blame,  blame,  blame?" 

"  Now  see  here,  Sally,  I — " 

"Hev  ye?  Answer  me  thet!  An'  never  a 
word  o'  lovin'  or  carin'.  Never  a  feelin'  of  it,  I 
c'n  see  now.  An'  then  comes  this  mornin',  an' 
it  shows  up  all  thet 's  gone  b'fore."  \, 

"  Oh,  there,  don't  harp  on  this  mornin',"  he 
broke  in.  "  I  did  n't  mean  anythin'.  I  'm  willin' 
t'  take  it  back,  seein'  as  it 's  made  sech  a  stir  as 
all  this." 

"  It  can't  be  taken  back,"  she  vehemently  re 
turned,  spurning  his  clumsy  attempt  at  propi 
tiation.  "  It  's  years  an'  years  o'  shovin'  put 
into  one  shove,  an'  I  'm  feelin'  'em  all  at  onct. 
It  's  too  many  t'  take  back,  offhand  like  thet. 
No,  Garrett;  somethin'  's  happened,  an'  some- 
thin'  else  has  got  t'  foller." 


EEVOLUTION  137 

"  What  d'  y'  mean  by  thet ! " 

"You  'd  better  set  down,"  she  said  calmly. 
"  You  an'  I  've  got  a  lot  t'  talk  over  yit  b'fore  I 
git  through." 

"  I  can't  stop  now,  I  tell  ye." 

"  Y'  Ve  got  to.  We  may  n't  git  a  chance  t' 
talk  often ;  an'  there  's  things  t'  say." 

"  Hurry  up,  then,  an'  say  'em  an'  git  'em  over." 

"There  's  no  sech  hurry.  Y'  c'n  make  up 
time  when  I  've  gone." 

"What  d'  y'  mean  by  'gone'?"  he  sniffed 
contemptuously. 

"Y'  '11  know  pretty  soon.  What  I  want  t' 
say  is  this :  We  've  hed  a  wrong  idee  'bout  mar 
riage,  you  an'  I.  Mine 's  been  as  wrong  as  yours. 
Marriage  ain't  a  contract  f r  hired  service.  It 
ain't  a  thing  where  one  takes  an'  th'  other  gives ; 
where  one  lords  it  an'  th'  other  knuckles  under ; 
where  there  's  nothin'  in  common  but  th'  grind 
o'  livin'  and  bringin'  up  childern.  It  's  some- 
thin'  more  ekal  than  thet,  more  close,  more  uu- 
derstandiri',  more  workiri'  t'gether,  more  give  an' 
take.  D'  y'  understand?  An'  thet  we  hev  ri't 
hed.  I  s'pose  it  's  a  matter  o'  people's  carin' 
f'r  each  other.  You  gave  over  carin'  f  r  me  a 
good  while  ago.  I  kep'  on,— kep'  on  till  this 
very  day ;  but  I  've  found  out  now  there  's  an 
end  to  all  things,  even  a  woman's  carin',  when 
it 's  thrown  back  on  her  too  long." 

"  Y'  're  pretty  unjust ;  thet 's  what  I  say." 


138  OLD  BO  WEN'S  LEGACY 

"Unjust?  I  'm  only  jest  learnin'  t'  be  just. 
Justice  works  both  ways." 

"Hain't  y'  hed  a  home,  same  's  th'  rest  o' 
people  ? " 

"'T  ain't  been  much  of  a  home.  Food  an' 
clothin'  an'  a  roof  don't  make  a  home,  even  ef 
they  cost  a  big  sight  more  than  those  I  've  hed. 
Home  1  No,  I  hain't ;  an'  there  's  jest  th'  p'int. 
I  hain't  known  what  home  is,  these  years. 
Strange  I  never  come  t'  see  it  till  now." 

"  There  's  worse,  in  Felton." 

"  I  don't  agree  with  ye.  Take  the  Watkinses. 
They  're  a  sight  poorer  than  we  be,  an'  Mrs. 
Watkins  works  harder  than  I  do,  ef  any  thin'; 
an'  Sneezer  's  got  a  foolish  head  f'r  makin'  or 
spendin',  an'  fr  other  things  too,  most  likely. 
But  he  's  jest  wrapped  up  in  Molly  an'  th'  chil- 
dern.  Y'  ought  t'  've  seen  him,  th'  other  day, 
when  I  was  in  there,  worryin'  over  Molly's  hand 
thet  she  'd  scalded,  an'  skurryin'  'round  f'r  things 
t'  put  on  it." 

"  Sneezer  ain't  wuth  makin'  into  a  lamb  pot- 
pie." 

"  He  'd  be  tenderer  than  you  be.  Then  there 's 
Tom  Henry.  I  've  heared  he  scolds  his  wife; 
but  he  hugs  her,  too.  'T  ain't  th'  work  an' 
worry  thet  comes  b'tween  husban'  an'  wife, 
Garrett ;  no,  n'r  a  word  now  an'  then.  There 's 
one  thing  thet  '11  make  th'  other  things  all 
right.  But  thet 's  a  thing  y'  hain't  given  me." 


EE  VOLUTION  139 

" P'r'aps  there  's  things  y'  hain't  given  me" 

"  There 's  many  things  I  hain't  given  ye ;  but 
thet  wa'  n't  one." 

"  Those  other  things  count  too,  I  reckon.  Y' 
say  I  hain't  keered  Pr  ye  th'  way  I  'd  oughter ; 
but  mebbe  y'  've  caused  thet  y'rself,  admittin' 
it  's  so.  A  woman  c'n  gener'lly  keep  her  hus- 
ban's  affection  ef  she  d'serves  it." 

"  I  don't  say  I  d'serve  it.  But  I  hain't  given 
reason  Pr  y'r  goin'  off  so  fur  th'  other  way  as  t' 
lead  t'  what  y'  've  jest  done  this  mornin'.  No, 
Grarrett ;  somethin'  's  happened.  An'  somethin' 
else  has  got  t'  follow." 

"What  're  y'  talkin'  'bout?" 

"  I  've  got  t'  leave  ye." 

"  Leave  me  1 "  he  echoed,  incredulous  despite 
the  solemnity  of  her  tone. 

"  Thet 's  what  I  said.  An'  this  very  mornin'. 
B'fore  noon,  I  an'  my  b'longin's  '11  be  out  o' 
this  house  Pr  good  an'  all." 

He  thumped  down  into  the  chair  behind  him 
with  angry  skepticism. 

"  Talk  sense !  "  he  commanded. 

"  I  'm  talkin'  it,"  she  responded  with  energy, 
her  eyes  beginning  to  blaze  again.  "  Th'  fust 
sense  I  've  talked  Pr  some  years,  I  reckon.  I  'm 
goin'  t'  leave  ye,  G-arrett  Coe ;  d'  y'  understand 
me  !  Groin'  t'  leave  this  house  an'  th'  work  an' 
th'  farm  an'  you,  an'  goin'  somewheres  else. 
An'  I  ain't  comin'  back." 


140  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

"  Somewheres  else,  eh  ?    Where  ? " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  yet.  Over  t'  Westbury, 
likely.  Cousin  Annie  there  '11  take  me  in  Pr 
a  while,  an'  be  glad  to ;  an'  I  've  got  egg-an'-butter 
money  thet  I  was  savin'  up  Fr  'Vinie  an'  thet  's 
my  very  own,  an'  thet  '11  keep  me  while  I  'm 
there.  I  ain't  no  dependent." 

"  An'  after  thet !  "  he  sneered. 

"  After  thet  1  I  've  no  idee.  It 's  all  come  on 
me  too  quick,  like.  But  I  '11  tell  ye  one  thing : 
what  I  've  got  '11  keep  me  there  till  I  c'n  git 
somethin'  or  other  t'  do, — takin'  washin'  or 
scrubbin'  floors,  even;  an'  I  'd  do  either  one 
b'fore  I  'd  come  back  here  to  you." 

The  sudden  flash  almost  of  hate  in  her  eyes 
was  a  revelation  to  him  of  things  he  had  not 
dreamed  of,  and  he  shrank  from  it. 

"Thet  's  th'  way  with  you  women,"  he  said 
bitterly.  "  Lovin'  one  day,  hatin'  th'  next.  I  'd 
ruther  hev— " 

"  Yes,  thet  's  just  us,"  she  interrupted 
abruptly.  "'T  ain't  easy  t'  shift  over,  but 
we  're  apt  t'  go  a  mighty  long  way  ef  we  go  at 
all.  Why,  I  would  n't  stay  under  this  roof  an 
other  day  with  ye,  any  more  than  I  'd  commit 
adultery." 

"  Hsssh !  "  he  ordered  sternly.  "  Leave  off. 
Don't  say  sech  things  as  thet." 

"  Well,  I  would  n't,"  she  retorted  defiantly. 

"Much  y'  're  respectin'  th'  marriage  tie  by 


KEVOLUTION  141 

goin'  away,"  he  flung  back,  "seein'  y'  're  so 
bent  on  th'  Commandments." 

"  Th'  marriage  tie  's  been  loosed  not  by  me, 
but  by  you ;  an'  not  to-day  'specially,  but  durin' 
years  back.  All  y'  did  this  mornin'  was  t'  give 
the  final  pull.  I  did  n't  know  how  much  't  was 
loosened  b'fore." 

"  It  ought  n't  t'  've  been  loosened  by  anythin' 
thet  could  happen." 

"  So  I  used  to  think ;  but  I  was  wrong,"  she 
said  firmly.  "I  don't  deny  there  's  a  certain 
amount  o'  strain  thet  marriage  has  got  t'  en 
dure, — any  marriage;  a  good  big  lot,  ef  y'  like. 
'T  ain't  a  thing  t'  be  snapped  apart  f'r  every 
little  happeniri',  u'r  even  f'r  every  big  one,  n'r  a 
good  many  of  'em  put  t'gether.  F'r  thet  matter, 
it  ain't  a  thing  t'  be  snapped  apart  ever,  an'  I  'm 
not  one  t'  say  it  is.  But  livin'  apart 's  another 
thing.  Yest'rday  I  'd  've  said  thet  was  sinful, 
too;  but  to-day  I  know  there  's  times  when 
stayin'  on  'd  be  sinfuller.  No,  't  ain't  exactly 
thet,  either.  What  I  meant  t'  say  is,  there  's 
times  when  stayin'  on 's  jest  out  o'  th'  question." 

She  automatically  fingered  first  one  arm, 
then  the  other,  where  he  had  grasped  her,  and 
her  tone  grew  heated  again. 

"  T'  think  't  was  my  own  husban'  done  it," 
she  said  with  bitterness,  and  the  man  winced 
under  her  cutting  tone.  "My  husban', — Garrett 
Coe.  Raised  his  hand  to  a  woman,  an'  thet 


142  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

woman  his  wife.  Ordered  her  t'  git  t'  work, 
like  a  fact'ry-hand  or  a  slavey.  Been  orderin' 
her  t'  do  it  f'r  years.  Been  clenchin'  her,  too, 
th'  same  way,  in  sperrit." 

"  Oh,  come  now,"  Coe  remonstrated. 

"  Course  y'  hev.  What  else  is  it  1  An'  at 
last  I  've  been  made  t'  see  it." 

"How  'bout  'Vinie  an'  th'  boys!  Hev  y' 
thought  o' them!" 

"I  hain't  f'rgotten  'Vinie  an'  th'  boys.  Ef 
'Vinie  'd  stay,  I  'd  like  it,  an'  she  c'd  do  f'r  you 
an'  th'  boys,— f'r  a  while,  anyway,  till  she  gits 
married.  But  she  won't  stay." 

"What 's  th'  reason  she  won't!" 

"Well,  she  won't."  Mrs.  Coe  gave  a  harsh 
little  laugh.  "  You  '11  see.  I  know  'Vinie." 

"  Y'  '11  tell  her  y'r  own  story,  of  course  ! "  he 
sniffed. 

"  I  '11  tell  her  not  one  word,"  declared  his  wife, 
indignantly;  "n'r  any  one  else.  'T  ain't  their 
business  what 's  happened  b'tween  you  an'  me. 
Thet  's  f'r  you  an'  me  t'  know, — an'  others  t' 
guess." 

"They  '11  guess  wuss  than  't  is,"  he  said 
sullenly. 

"They  could  n't, — not  ef  they  reelly  knew. 
But  I  sha'n't  help  'em ;  an'  I  take  it  you  won't. 
'Vinie  '11  go  with  me,  an'  wild  horses  could  n't 
keep  her  when  she  hears  I  'm  goin'." 

"  Y'  're  not  reelly  goin',"  he  said,  unable  even 


EEVOLUTION  143 

now  to  realize  that  she  meant  it,  and  meant  it 
with  deadly  determination.  This  phase  of  his 
wife's  mind  he  had  never,  remotely  fathomed. 
This  sudden  stiffening  of  her  nature,  this  savage 
insurrection,  this  alternation  from  heat  to  cool 
ness  playing  over  an  invincible  determination, 
this  new,  clear,  unsparing,  retrospective  vision 
of  hers,  which  seemed  to  set  all  things,  for  her 
as  for  him,  in  a  blinding  light, — these  were  un 
wonted  and  dazing  developments,  and  they 
sobered  and  astounded  and  strangely  alarmed 
him.  Had  not  her  own  sight  been  obscured  by 
her  tumult  of  feeling  she  would  have  perceived 
a  sudden  falling  away  of  his  bullyingness  and 
bluster,  a  collapse  of  his  mental  attitude  of 
offense,  a  reversal  of  his  fanciful  hates  and 
grievances,  a  kind  of  violent  upturning  of  the 
whole  unreal  world  of  brooding  and  self -justifi 
cation  in  which  he  had  lived,  which  left  him 
naked  and  ashamed  in  soul  and  abased  before 
her. 

But  these  things  were  not  on  the  surface.  It 
needed  a  wondrous,  a  wifely  insight.  She  no 
longer  possessed  such;  she  was  no  longer  his 
wife  in  spirit;  and  he  was  not  one  to  tell  of 
them  nor  even  to  admit  them.  His  tone  was 
hard  and  cynical  as  usual,  as  he  asked  the  ques 
tion  about  her  really  going. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  with  a  finality  which 
admitted  of  no  possible  doubt.  "Fr'm  this 


144  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

day  on,  you  an'  I  begin  different  lives.  They  '11 
never  run  on  t'gether  ag'in." 

"  Oh,  come,  Sally,"  he  said,  seriously  dis 
quieted.  "  Y'  can't  mean  a  thing  like  thet. 
What  '11 1  do  I  What  '11  folks  say  1 " 

"I  can't  help  what  they  say.  I  owe  some 
things  t'  myself  b'fore  I  owe  'em  t'  other  peo 
ple.  An'  as  t'  what  you  '11  do,  y'  '11  hev  t'  settle 
thet  f'r  y'rself ." 

She  threw  herself  on  the  sofa,  and  burst  into 
a  fit  of  passionate  weeping. 

"  Oh,  Garrett,  Garrett,"  she  cried.  "  All  these 
years !  Here  I  've  been  lovin'  you  an'  you  've 
been  hatin'  me.  Why  did  n't  I  find  it  out 
sooner  1  Why  did  n't  y'  tell  me  b'fore  we  were 
married  how  't  was  goin'  t'  be  1 " 

A  slender  figure  stood  in  the  doorway  as  these 
last  words  were  uttered,  and  'Vinie  quivered 
violently  as  they  fell  upon  her  ear.  Swiftly, 
softly,  she  passed  her  father,  and  was  kneeling 
by  her  mother's  side,  wordless,  but  infinitely 
comprehending,  tender,  comforting,  caressing. 

Coe  looked  sullenly  down  on  the  two.  Then 
he  crossed  to  the  kitchen  door  and  left  the 
room. 


IX 

DEPAKTUKE 

FOE  a  long  time,  overstrained  Mrs.  Coe  con 
tinued  to  cry,  first  vehemently,  copiously, 
then  more  quietly,  while  her  daughter's  fair 
fingers  stroked  her  hair  or  clasped  her  hand,  or 
gently  busied  themselves  in  similar  little  offices 
that  spoke  sympathy  and  alliance  more  openly 
than  words  would  have  done.  Gradually  the 
mother,  relieved  by  the  paroxysm  of  grief  and 
weeping,  regained  composure,  but  with  deter 
mination  unchanged.  This  determination  she 
disclosed  to  'Vinie,  saying  little  of  the  morning's 
events,  and  seeing  as  she  talked  that  even  the 
little  was  unnecessary.  The  daughter  seemed 
to  divine  the  whole  affair  by  some  swift  intui 
tion  or  long-accumulating  '  perception ;  and 
while  startled  and  keenly  distressed,  she  uttered 
no  word  to  turn  or  dissuade  her  mother,  partly 
as  seeing  the  futility  of  any  remonstrance,  and 
partly  as  impulsively  indorsing  the  act.  She 
forbore,  as  did  the  other,  all  direct  condemna 
tion  of  her  father. 

10  145 


146  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

Mrs.  Coe's  face,  from  the  time  that  her  hus 
band  had  laid  rough  hands  upon  her,  had  never 
parted  with  a  certain  frightened  yet  fixed  ex 
pression,  as  of  a  new  but  irrevocable  realization 
of  tragic  facts.  Rising,  she  insisted  that  'Vinie 
should  eat  a  little  breakfast,  and  going  up- stairs, 
she  proceeded  mechanically  to  gather  together 
her  things.  Her  daughter  soon  followed  her. 

"Mamma,"  said  'Vinie,  timidly,  "I  '11  stay." 

Mrs.  Coe  looked  up,  for  the  moment  discon 
certed.  Her  daughter's  moral  desertion  would 
have  been  a  hard  additional  thing  to  bear, 
though  it  would  not  have  shaken  her  purpose. 
But  'Vinie's  was  no  desertion;  rather  truest 
loyalty. 

u  Oh,  it  's  for  you !  "  she  cried,  catching  her 
mother's  glance.  "  Did  you  think  it  was  be 
cause  I  wanted  to  I  You  know  how  I  just  ache 
to  go  with  you.  But  what  could  you  do  with 
me  I  And  there  are  the  boys  to  look  after.  You 
know  that  the  thought  of  them  is  'most  killing 
you,  this  very  minute." 

"  Oh,  't  is,  'Vinie ! "  cried  the  mother,  miserably. 
"  I  can't  leave  'em ;  an'  yit  I  can't  take  'em.  Ef 
't  was  jest  me  an'  Garrett,  how  plain  an'  simple 
things  would  be !  But  things  never  do  seem 
plain  an'  simple  f'r  anybody." 

"I  '11  watch  over  the  boys,"  'Vinie  said 
simply. 

"  But  you  can't  stay  here  an'  do  th'  work," 


DEPARTURE  147 

argued  Mrs.  Coe,  anxiously.  "  It  's  too  much 
fr  ye.  I  would  n't  hear  to  it." 

11  Don't  you  worry  about  the  work,  mamma," 
responded  the  daughter,  with  a  little  disdainful 
toss  of  the  head.  "I  '11  do  what  I  've  always 
done ;  but  pa  '11  have  to  get  some  one  in  to  do 
the  rest,  if  he  wants  it  done  at  all.  That 's  one 
of  the  ways  he  '11  see  what  you  've  been  to  him, 
— though  it 's  the  littlest  way  of  all." 

The  elder  woman  paused  in  her  abstracted 
sorting  out  of  her  possessions. 

"What  can  I  do!"  she  uttered  appealingly. 
"  I  can't  go  off  an'  leave  ye  all,  this  way.  I 
can't ! "  Then  the  memory  of  the  morning 
brought  back  the  past  years.  "An'  I  can't 
stay,"  she  exclaimed  swiftly,  decisively.  "I 
can't !  Why,  I  c'd  no  more — "  She  broke 
down  again. 

Agitated  'Vinie  could  be  of  little  comfort, 
though  comfort  was  so  sorely  needed.  In  a 
minute  or  two  Mrs.  Coe  had  recovered  herself, 
and  rapidly  went  on  with  her  task.  There  was 
an  old  packing-trunk  in  the  attic,  now  filled 
with  winter  bedding  and  clothing  folded  away 
in  tar  and  camphor  until  the  coming  of  cold 
weather.  This  trunk,  which  had  belonged  to 
Mrs.  Coe,  the  two  emptied  and  brought  into 
the  bedroom.  As  the  mother  worked,  silently 
aided  by  'Vinie,  her  face  never  softened  its 
expression,  and  there  was  clearly  no  faintest 


148  OLD   BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

weakening  of  her  desperate  resolution.  In  fact, 
her  face  grew  steadily  harder.  Impressions, 
recollections,  came  tumultuously  into  her  mind. 
Countless  long  forgotten  or  excused  incidents  of 
her  husband's  behavior  to  ward  her  clamored  now 
for  recognition  and  review.  Instances  of  his  be 
havior  toward  others,  his  harshness  and  incivil 
ity  and  lovelessness,  pressed  forward  at  the  same 
time.  Rumors  that  had  reached  her  ears  of 
the  trouble  at  the  post- office  some  weeks  since, 
took  on  sudden  and  definite  meaning.  'Vinie's 
unguarded  reports  of  the  very  night  before, 
anent  the  fire  and  Coe's  believed  complicity, 
flashed  before  her,  showing  his  status  in  still 
another  loathsome  light ;  and  she  started,  for  a 
moment,  to  find  that  she  could  now  give  full 
credence  even  to  his  alleged  incendiarism.  The 
riot  of  feeling,  passing  so  swiftly  into  revolt 
and  rebellion,  had  become  revolution.  For  the 
first  time  she  was  seeing  her  husband  with 
alien  eyes,  and  she  saw  him  in  all  his  detested- 
ness  and  ostracism.  And  her  lips  compressed 
themselves  with  keener  and  keener  scorn. 

Coe,  who  had  returned  to  the  house,  came 
stalking  up  the  stairs,  uneasy  yet  with  a  bold 
front ;  but  his  wife  positively  and  with  few  words 
forbade  his  entering  the  room.  He  felt  an  odd 
powerlessness  as  he  claimed  permission  ineffec 
tually.  She  would  not  speak  with  him  further,  and 
after  a  minute  he  stalked  down  again,  rebuffed. 


DEPARTUEE  149 

The  sight  of  the  uncleared  breakfast-things  on 
the  table  below  gave  him  an  indefinable  little 
shock  as  he  passed  through  the  kitchen  and 
wandered  aimlessly  out  to  join  Sol  in  the  fields. 

The  Westbury  stage  always  left  the  Corners 
at  eleven  in  the  forenoon.  'Vinie  volunteered 
to  go  down-town  and  instruct  the  good-natured 
driver  to  pass  the  Coe  house  and  take  up  her 
mother  and  the  trunk,  and  she  hurried  off  for 
this  purpose.  She  found  the  driver  among  the 
knots  of  people  which,  all  the  morning,  had 
been  forming  and  dissolving  about  the  scene  of 
the  fire;  and  drawing  him  aside,  imparted  her 
errand  quietly  and  with  an  injunction  to  say 
nothing  about  it. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Coe,  trembling,  energetic, 
had  been  seized  with  a  new  and  compelling  im 
pulse,  and  had  begun  to  pack  little  Game's 
things  in  along  with  hers.  From  time  to  time 
she  slipped  noiselessly  into  the  adjoining  cham 
ber,  where  both  the  boys,  with  the  limitless 
somnolence  of  unburdened  childhood,  were  still 
sleeping  soundly.  Garrie  had  ceased  to  toss 
and  turn  since  the  hours  of  the  night,  and  his 
delicate,  wistful  little  face  had  lost  its  lines  of 
vague  restlessness  and  disturbance.  He  was  her 
favorite.  She  bent  over  him  with  a  great  thrill. 

"  I  can't  leave  him  behind,"  she  whispered  to 
herself,  her  lips  softly  touching  his  cheek,  "  an' 
I  won't.  Garrett  sha'n't  have  everythin'." 


150  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

Passing  around  the  bed,  she  bent  over  and 
lovingly  kissed  the  face  of  the  other  lad  also ; 
but  when  she  went  back  to  her  packing,  it  was 
to  resume  with  added  resolve  the  gathering 
together  of  the  clothes  and  small  belongings  of 
little  G-arrie. 

'Vinie  returned,  and  was  swift  to  indorse 
Mrs.  Coe's  new  plan,  rightly  divining  that  with 
out  at  least  one  of  her  cherished  ones  near  her, 
the  mother-heart  must  burst  with  yearning. 
The  girl,  herself  ardently  aroused,  and  wrought 
up  to  a  high  pitch  of  sympathy  and  emotion, 
showed  a  curiously  swift  and  living  compre 
hension  of  the  significance  of  what  was  happen 
ing,  and  appeared  to  enter  into  her  mother's  feel 
ings  with  an  entirety  and  intensity  which  would 
have  been  thought  to  be  possible  only  to  one  who 
had  had  far  more  deep  and  varied  experiences 
than  'Vinie  had  ever  encountered.  But  hers  was 
a  life  of  the  soul,  of  the  feelings,  of  deep-prompted 
instincts  and  impulses  that  did  not  base  on 
analysis  or  experience  and  yet  that  rarely 
found  themselves  in  error.  She  knew  and 
shared  her  mother's  very  soul  on  this  day, — 
though  in  silence ;  and  the  mother  realized  it, 
through  all  her  tumult  of  thoughts  and  deter 
minations,  and  felt  its  uplifting,  buoying  help. 

GrARRETT  COE  tramped  back  from  the  farther 
pasture  for  midday  dinner,  after  all.     He  had 


DEPARTURE  151 

stubbornly  resisted  the  unceasing  desire,  all  the 
morning,  to  come  back  sooner.  He  had  held 
doggedly  to  his  fence-repairing,  telling  himself 
that  his  wife's  sputter  would  shortly  be  over,  and 
that  she  would  quiet  down  and  be  deep  in  work 
by  the  noon-hour.  He  found  it  impossible  to 
imagine  that  her  announced  determination  to 
leave  him  was  seriously  meant;  yet  he  was 
thoroughly  disquieted  and,  had  he  confessed  it, 
anxious  and  a  prey  to  misgivings  as,  after 
telling  Sol  that  he  would  see  why  dinner  had 
not  been  sent  out,  he  pressed  back  with  grow 
ing  unrest  to  the  farm-house. 

'Vinie  was  in  the  kitchen,  and  he  knew  that 
he  had  lost  a  daughter  as  well  as  a  wife  when 
she  informed  him  that  the  latter  had  gone 
away.  Her  tone  was  controlled,  but  something 
in  it  told  volumes.  He  stared  at  her  stupidly. 

"  Where 's  the  boys ! "  he  demanded. 

"  She  took  Grarrie  with  her.  I  sent  Bruce 
down  to  school.  I  wrote  him  an  excuse  for 
being  so  late,  and  told  the  teacher  that  Grarrie 
would  n't  be  coming  again." 

"Took  Grarrie  with  her?"  he  began;  and 
then,  words  failing  him,  he  betook  himself  in 
continently  up-stairs  to  verify  these  incredible 
things.  There  was  no  one  there ;  and  a  glance 
around  convinced  him  beyond  cavil  that  two 
of  the  missing  were  not  coming  back. 

He  stood  there,  looking  vacantly  around  the 


152  OLD  BO  WEN'S  LEGACY 

familiar  room,  which,  almost  undisturbed  in  its 
visible  furnishings  and  its  few  small  adorn 
ments,  yet  impressed  him  with  a  strange  air  of 
emptiness.  He  stood  a  long  while,  scarcely 
stirring,  and  many  thoughts  came  and  went. 
But  his  face  betrayed  nothing  as  he  went 
down-stairs  again. 

"  Where  's  dinner  ? "  he  asked  curtly. 
"It 's  ready.     I  got  it,  this  time." 
He  grunted,  perceiving  a  certain  significance 
in  her  remark.     'Vinie  set  the  hot  dishes  upon 
the  table,  and  they  ate  the  meal  in  silence. 


A  NINE  DAYS'  WONDER 

'  T  WANT  t'  know ! » 

J-  It  was  Mr.  Leavitt's  incredulous  voice. 
The  stage-driver  had  just  driven  in  on  his  return 
trip,  and  having  delivered  at  the  post-office  his 
scanty  bag  of  mail,  lingered  behind  the  screen 
of  call-boxes  long  enough  to  impart  his  latest 
news.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  as  he  had 
been  detained  at  Westbury  by  a  broken  whiffle- 
tree. 

He  had  carried  Mrs.  Coe  and  Garrie  over  to 
Westbury  in  the  morning,  but  his  adroit  ques 
tioning  had  failed  to  elicit  from  her  any  infor 
mation  as  to  the  reason  for  the  journey.  On 
the  way  back  he  made  it  a  point  to  pass  again 
by  the  Coe  place.  'The  farmer  was  standing 
vacantly  at  the  front  gate,  apparently  lost  in 
abstraction,  his  gaze  fixed  idly  upon  the  sandy 
road  before  him.  The  driver  drew  rein,  and 
accosted  him  genially : 

"  Hullo,  Mr.  Coe.  Druv  y'r  wife  an'  boy  over 
with  me  this  mornin'." 

153 


154  OLD  BO  WEN'S  LEGACY 

"Well,  what  of  it?"  demanded  the  other, 
gruffly. 

"  Thought  y'  'd  like  t'  know  they  got  there 
all  safe.  I  took  'em  right  to  her  cousin's  door, 
trunk  an'  all." 

"  Huh ! " 

" They  goin'  t'  stay  long?" 

"F'rever,  as  fur  's  I  know  or  keer,"  said 
Coe,  briefly.  "  She  's  left  me.  Drive  on,  will 


"Left  ye?"  queried  the  astonished  stage- 
driver. 

"  Thet  's  what  I  said,  ain't  it  ?  Y'  might  as 
well  be  told  fust  as  last.  Women  are  all  fools. 
Come,  drive  on." 

"  Th'  road  's  free,  I  guess,"  answered  the  dri 
ver,  with  spirit.  "  I  '11  drive  on  when  I  git  ready, 
an'  not  b'fore." 

"  Well,  when  y'  git  ready,  I  '11  come  out  ag'in," 
snapped  Coe,  turning  from  the  gate.  "Pity 
folks  ain't  got  a  right  t'  be  let  alone  at  their 
own  door." 

"  Oh,  y'  're  let  alone  enough  t'  suit  ye,  most  o' 
th'  time,"  the  indignant  driver  called  after  him, 
with  a  shake  of  his  reins  on  the  horses'  backs. 
"  I  'm  willin'  t'  keep  it  up,  f'r  one ;"  and  he  trotted 
on  into  town.  But  it  was  big  news,  and  with 
the  natural  alacrity  of  one  who  had  a  "  scoop," 
he  lost  no  time  in  disburdening  himself  of  it  at 
the  center  of  intelligence,  the  post-office. 


A  NINE  DAYS'  WONDER  155 

"  I  want  t'  know ! "  repeated  Mr.  Leavitt,  highly 
amazed  and  interested. 

"  Best  thing-  she  ever  done,"  warmly  returned 
the  driver,  fresh  from  his  outburst  against  the 
husband.  "I  'd  ought  t'  've  gotten  down  an' 
kicked  him." 

He  was  muscular,  but  Mr.  Leavitt  surveyed 
him  dubiously. 

"Y'  'd  've  got  kicked  back,"  he  observed. 
"  Garrett  would  n't  be  any  too  easy  t'  wrastle 
with.  I  wondered  Mr.  Reed  c'd  've  held  him 
as  long  's  he  did,  thet  evenin'  here.  An'  so  he 
told  ye  himself  she  'd  gone  1 " 

"  Thet 's  what  he  did." 

"  Sho !  An'  she  's  in  Westbury  ? — an'  took 
Game  with  her  ?  Well,  I  d'clare !  " 

Mr.  Leavitt  masticated  the  surprising  infor 
mation  with  difficulty  but  relish.  Naturally 
he  was  also  rather  scandalized. 

"  She  's  run  away,  then ;  thet  's  what  she  's 
done,"  he  summarized  wonderingly. 

"  Thet  's  about  it.  Ef  I  'd  been  her,  I  'd  've 
run  away  a  dern  sight  sooner.  He  's  a  reg'lar 
ol'  cur.  I  bet  he  's  hit  her  or  somethin'." 

"  Y'  don't  reelly  think  so ! " 

"Yes,  I  do.    He  's  one  thet  would." 

"  Well,  well !  Fust  time  any  thin'  like  thet 's 
happened  in  this  town,  as  fur  back  's  I  c'n 
r'member,"  said  Mr.  Leavitt,  thoughtfully. 
"  Gone  an'  left  him  f'r  good  an'  all !  I  d'clare ! " 


156  OLD  BO  WEN'S  LEGACY 

"  Well,  it 's  good  sense,"  said  the  stage-driver, 
emphatically.  "  I  never  was  one  t'  see  why  a 
man  an'  woman  sh'd  hev  t'  stick  t'  one  another 
everlastin'ly,  jest  b'cause  a  parson 's  spoke  a  few 
words  over  'em.  Not  ef  they  're  as  badly  used 
as  I  guess  Mrs.  Coe  's  been." 

"Well,  I  don'  know,"  deliberated  the  post 
master.  "Paul  did  n't  set  any  store  by 
divorces." 

"  He  did  n't  say  anythin'  ag'inst  separating" 
the  other  argued,  "  an'  thet  's  all  Mrs.  Coe  's 
done.  No,  sir ;  I  '11  stick  up  f'r  her,  f 'r  one,  an' 
I  jedge  everybody  in  town  will.  You  see.  But 
I  wish  I  'd  gotten  down  an'  kicked  him,  as  I  said. 
Jest  f'r  luck." 

A  call  for  stamps  interrupted  the  conversa 
tion,  and  the  driver  made  his  way  back  to  his 
team,  moving  out  through  the  outer  office.  He 
exchanged  a  few  words  with  some  persons  pass 
ing  on  the  walk  outside,  and  then  jogged  slowly 
on  down  the  main  street,  accosting  several 
whom  he  met,  and  leaning  sociably  forward  for 
a  minute's  chat  while  the  horses  paused.  In 
this  way  he  contrived  to  disseminate  his  in 
teresting  news  not  only  impartially  but  quite 
widely,  on  his  leisurely  way  to  the  Say  res', 
where  he  boarded. 

Gran'pa  Sayre  was  an  infirm  and  aged  wid 
ower,  who  had  misty  boyhood  recollections  of 
the  War  of  1812,  and  who  was  still  alert  as  to 


A  NINE  DAYS'  WONDER  157 

current  happenings.  His  widowed  daughter-in- 
law,  Lyddy  Sayre,  lived  with  him,  as  did  also  her 
only  daughter,  Belle,  a  hearty,  cheery,  blond- 
ringleted  girl,  who  took  after  her  dead  father 
rather  than  after  her  sorrowing,  care-troubled 
mother.  Gran'pa  Sayre,  now  ably  aided  by 
Walt  Hopkins,  the  stage-driver,  still  kept  up 
the  modest  livery-stable  which  had  for  two 
generations  supplied  Felton's  occasional  wants, 
and  which  yearly  brought  in  its  small  but  use 
ful  revenue.  He  controlled  the  Westbury  stage 
and  also  the  one  to  Hingham,  and  still  took  an 
active  interest  in  his  stable,  though  deputing 
the  actual  care  of  it  to  Walt  and  to  Walt's 
younger  brother,  who  attended  to  the  work 
during  the  hours  when  Hopkins  himself  was 
on  the  route. 

The  driver  put  up  his  horses  in  the  roomy 
stable  at  the  rear,  and  came  into  the  house, 
where  he  promptly  told  his  item  of  news.  Its 
reception  was  all  that  could  be  desired.  Gran' 
pa  Sayre  was  sitting,  idle  in  the  failing  light,  in 
his  comfortable,  wide-armed  chair.  Mrs.  Sayre, 
his  daughter,  was  also  unoccupied  for  the  time, 
her  sewing  interrupted  by  the  dusk.  It  was 
not  time  to  light  the  lamps.  The  quarter-hour 
of  "  blindman's  holiday "  was  an  interval  that 
active,  restless  Belle  always  detested,  and  she 
was  now  moving  objectlessly  about,  tidying 
the  room  here  and  there,  and  killing  time  by 


158  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

various  small  doings.  Lorinda  Park  had  been 
in  spending  the  afternoon,  aiding  Mrs.  Sayre 
and  Belle  in  some  assorting  of  squares  for  a 
patchwork  quilt,  and  was  now  on  the  point  of 
leaving.  All  welcomed  the  coming  of  Walt 
Hopkins,  who  always  seemed  to  bring  in  with 
him  fresh  air  and  cheer  from  the  outer  world. 
They  listened  to  his  announcement  with  be 
fitting  amazement. 

"I  guess  she  could  n't  put  up  with  a  man 
thet  sets  fire  t'  people's  stores,"  observed  Mrs. 
Sayre. 

"  Small  blame  to  her,"  declared  the  driver, 
tossing  his  hat  upon  a  distant  what-not,  and 
stretching  himself  luxuriously  along  the  wide, 
roomy  lounge. 

"'T  ain't  right,"  pronounced  Gran'pa's  high, 
positive  voice.  "  'T  ain't  right,  no  way  y'  look 
at  it," 

"Why  don't  y'  think  so,  father?"  asked  his 
daughter,  with  a  certain  typical  deference  to  the 
views  of  an  elder. 

"  It 's  a  tie  thet  ain't  of  our  makin',  an'  hed  n't 
ought  t'  be  of  our  breakin'." 

"  How  d'  y'  mean,  it  ain't  of  our  makin'  1 " 
asked  Lyddy. 

"  Ain't  marriage  a  divine  ord'nance  f " 

"  So  we  're  told." 

"  Well,  then  !  "  he  said  triumphantly. 

"  I  don't  believe  it  was  meant  to  hold  as  tight 


A  NINE   DAYS'   WONDER  159 

as  all  that,"  put  in  Belle,  with  conviction.  "  I 
can  tell  you  what  it  is :  if  I  was  married  to  a  man 
like  Garrett  Coe,  I  M  do  just  what  she  's  done." 

"  Y'  '11  feel  diff'rent  when  y'  're  married,"  said 
her  mother. 

"  I  don't  think  so.  I  don't  see  why  I  should 
stay  on  and  be  unhappy  and  hard  pressed  all 
my  life,  just  because  I  once  thought  a  man  was 
different  from  what  he  turned  out  to  be." 

"  A  woman  ought  t'  know  at  th'  start,"  ob 
jected  Lyddy.  "  It 's  a  risk  she  has  t'  take." 

"You  can't  know  at  the  start,"  the  girl  de 
clared.  "  I  don't  believe  any  girl  does." 

"  Thet  's  so,  fast  enough,"  affirmed  Walt,  from 
his  sofa.  "  There  's  men  thet  's  as  smooth  an' 
straight  an'  slick  outwardly  as  th'  very  elect,  as 
fur  as  women  c'n  see,  an'  yit  they  're  bad 
through  an' .  through.  Other  men  may  know 
'em ;  but  ef  they  do,  they  can't  say  so,  most 
gener'lly.  Or  they  won't.  Pity,  too.  It  takes 
a  man  t'  size  up  a  man.  An'  I  guess  likely  it 
takes  a  woman  t'  size  up  a  woman, — though  I 
ain't  so  sure  as  t'  thet."  He  stole  an  admiring 
look  at  Belle. 

Miss  Park  spoke. 

"  One  's  as  true  as  th'  other,"  she  asserted. 
"  But  thet  only  makes  th'  risk  ekal  an'  evens 
things  up." 

"Evens  'em  down,  don't  you  think?"  sug 
gested  Belle. 


160  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

"  No,  I  don't.  Where  'd  life  be  ef  everybody 
thet  's  husband  or  wife  was  free  t'  leave,  any 
time  they  concluded  they  was  dissatisfied  ? " 

"  It 's  been  a  good  sight  more  than  jest  bein' 
dissatisfied,  as  fur  's  Mrs.  Coe  's  concerned,  I 
take  it,"  remarked  Hopkins. 

"G-arrett  was  a  likely  young  man  enough," 
put  in  Gran'pa.  "  I  rec'llect  him  well  as  a 
young  feller.  Allers  straight  and  well-be 
haved." 

"  Well,  then,  that  only  makes  another  kind  of 
risk,"  argued  his  granddaughter, — "where  a 
man  turns  out  different,  not  from  what  you 
thought,  but  from  what  he  really  was." 

"  We  all  turn  out  diff'rent,  f 'r  better  or  wuss," 
generalized  the  old  man.  "  An'  it  's  f'r  better 
or  wuss  thet  we  marry." 

"Yes,  thet  's  exac'ly  it,"  added  Miss  Park. 
"A  body  can  be  jest  as  unhappy  or  hard 
pressed  single  as  married."  There  was  a  deep 
wistf  ulness  in  her  voice.  "  There 's  jest  as  much 
risk.  More,  sometimes.  A  married  woman  's 
got  blessin's  thet  she  ain't  always  thankful 
enough  fur.  But  she  'd  miss  'em  ef  she  'd  never 
hed  'em,  I  tell  ye." 

"  I  ruther  expected  you  t'  take  th'  other  side, 
Lorindy,"  put  in  Mrs.  Sayre,  with  a  friendly 
little  smile.  "  Y'  're  gener'lly  pretty  outspoken, 
y'  know." 

"  I  say  what  I  think,"  agreed  the  other.     "  But 


A  NINE   DAYS'  WONDER  161 

I  don't  allers  think  different  fr'm  what 's  usual. 
I  don't  'bout  marriage,  f  r  one  thing." 

"  Thet  's  right,"  approved  Gran'pa  Sayre. 
"We  've  got  t'  hold  by  some  things  ef  we  're 
goin'  t'  hold  at  all.  When  we  git  t'  playin'  fast 
an'  loose,  't  ain't  easy  stoppin'.  I  'd  ruther  hold 
by  'em  all.  I  've  done  it  f  r  seventy-eight  year." 

"  Well,  I  don't  calc'late  thet  I  kin,"  observed 
Walt  Hopkins.  "  I  may  ef  things  go  right ;  but 
thet 's  all  I  c'n  say." 

"  They  hev  n't  allers  gone  right  with  me," 
averred  the  old  man. 

"No,  indeed,  they  hev  n't,  pa,"  his  widowed 
daughter  said,  not  without  admiration.  "N'r 
with  me,"  she  added,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Still,  ma,  you  did  n't  have  the  kind  o'  thing 
Mrs.  Coe  's  had  to  bear,"  contended  Belle.  "  And 
I  guess  Gran'pa  did  n't  either,"  she  added,  with 
a  laugh. 

"  No,  child,"  assented  her  mother.  "  I  did  n't ; 
thet  's  true.  But  I  'd  'most  ruther  've  hed  y'r 
poor  father  alive  an'  bad  t'  me  than  good  t'  me 
an'  dead."  Lyddy  rarely  obtruded  her  bereave 
ment,  and  never  her  grief ;  and  now,  to  conceal 
a  rising  emotion,  she  hurried  out  of  the  room  to 
light  and  bring  in  the  lamps. 

"  Hugh  never  would  've  been  bad  t'  her,"  said 
the  old  man,  with  paternal  pride  in  the  fact.  "  A 
big,  hearty,  cheery  lad  like  Hugh !  Poor  boy. 
Well,  I  wish  Providence  c'd  've  spared  him." 


u 


162  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

"I  do  feel  so  sorry  for  'Vinie,"  Belle  said, 
with  love  for  her  playmate  and  schoolmate. 

"  I  s'pose  she  '11  hev  t'  take  charge  o'  things," 
piped  Grran'pa,— "  th'  house  an'  th'  other  leetle 
boy  an'  all." 

"  No,  she  won't,"  said  Belle,  promptly.  "  Not 
'Vinie  Coe.  I  know  her  better  than  that. 
She  '11  do  her  part,  as  she  's  been  doing,  but 
she  won't  let  her  father  get  a  servant's  work 
out  of  her  after  lie  's  just  driven  her  mother 
off  with  too  much  of  it.  You  '11  see." 

"I  don't  b'lieve  't  was  too  much  work  thet 
druv  Sally  off,"  put  in  Miss  Park.  "  'T  was  too 
much  grumble  an'  scold  an'  gen'ral  ugliness. 
Work  ain't  a  bad  diet.  Ef  't  was,  we  'd  all  be 
dead." 

"  I  guess  it  sort  o'  gits  t'  be  a  bad  diet  when 
it 's  seasoned  with  thet  kind  o'  sauce,"  reflected 
Hopkins.  "  It 's  wuss  than  red  peppers,  I  sh'd 
say." 

"  Red  peppers  is  good  seasonin'." 

"  Not  when  they  're  in  every  dish,  an'  dessert, 
too ;  an'  fed  t'  ye  'tween-times  b'sides." 

"  Well,"  acquiesced  Miss  Lorinda,  rising  to  go 
as  Mrs.  jSayre  returned,  "  mebbe  not.  A  body 
can't  tell  till  it 's  tried.  I  'm  sorry  f'r  Sally  Coe, 
of  course, — dreadful  sorry;  but  I  think  she  'd 
ought  t'  've  stuck  by.  An'  I  think  y'  '11  find 
thet  th'  gen'ral,  sober,  orthodox  sense  o'  th'  com" 
munity  '11  be  ag'inst  her.  Thet  ain't  sayin'  thet 


A  NINE  DAYS'  WONDER  163 

people  won't  sympathize  with  her,  or  thet  they 
don't  despise  her  husban'.  But  they  '11  feel  thet 
thet  kind  of  a  remedy 's  too  dangerous  f 'r  gen'ral 
practice." 

"Well,  I  can't  agree  with  ye, — beggin'  pardon, 
Miss  Lorindy,"  said  the  stage-driver,  vigorously, 
as  he  stood  up.  "  I  'm  glad  I  c'd  help  in  gittin'  her 
out  of  it.  Ef  she  hed  n't  been  able  t'  pay  fare, 
I  'd  've  been  glad  t'  pay  it  out  o'  my  own  pocket. 
An'  I  guess,  on  th' whole,  th'  town  '11  say  th'  same. 
Ef  y'  're  goin',  Miss  Lorindy,  I  '11  see  ye  safe 
down  t'  y'r  house  ef  y'  '11  let  me." 

Belle  looked  as  pleased  at  the  little  gallantry 
as  did  the  visitor,  and  Walt  and  Miss  Park 
moved  off  together. 

As  they  approached  the  Kembles',  who  were 
near  neighbors  of  Miss  Park's,  they  saw  through 
the  windows  the  family  sitting  around  the  lamp 
in  the  room  within,  and  the  little  woman  could 
not  resist  the  desire  to  "  drop  in  "  for  a  few  mo 
ments.  Miss  Park  liked  to  discuss  and  talk,  but 
she  never  bore  tales  from  one  household  to  an 
other  ;  so  that  she  was  always  a  welcomed  caller 
wherever  her  neighborhood  peregrinations  led 
her.  Walt  left  her  at  the  gate,  and  she  entered. 

The  new  topic  was,  of  course,  engrossing  dis 
cussion  at  the  Kembles'  also,  but  it  had  taken  a 
somewhat  different  turn.  Mrs.  Kemble  and 
Miss  Harvey  had  found  a  verdict  extremely 
difficult.  On  the  one  hand,  they  were  naturally 


164  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

bitterly  hostile  to  Coe  since  the  affair  of  the  fire 
which  had  so  closely  affected  the  Kemble  inter 
ests,  and  upon  the  redeeming  features  of  which 
Mr.  Kemble  had  not  dwelt  at  injudicious  length. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  opportunity  of  criticiz 
ing  sharply  a  troubled  sister's  revolutionary  act 
was  not  one  to  be  lightly  thrown  away.  Mr. 
Kemble  divined  the  conflict  of  ideas,  and  viewed 
its  development  with  secret  glee,  not  alone  as  a 
humorist  but  as  an  enlightened  psychologist. 

"  Well,  what  d'  you  think  of  it  all,  Lorindy  I » 
the  two  women  demanded,  turning  to  the  new 
comer  with  a  certain  relief. 

"  Me !    Well,  I  can't  say  's  I  approve." 

"N'r  I,"  said  Miss  Harvey,  with  positiveness. 

"Why,  there,  now,"  Mr.  Kemble  reminded  her, 
"  you  was  jest  a-sayin'  thet — " 

"No  matter,"  she  interrupted  sharply.  "I 
don't  care  how  good-f'r-nothin'  an'  wicked  a 
husband  is,  it 's  a  wife's  dooty  t'  stick  by  him." 

"  Th'  way  Letty  's  stuck  by  me,"  illustrated 
Mr.  Kemble.  "An'  the  way  you  hev,  too,  f'r 
thet  matter,  Sophrony." 

Miss  Harvey  looked  at  him  sharply,  but  his 
face  was  very  innocent,  and  her  suspicions  were 
lulled. 

"  'T  ain't  dooty  on  my  part,"  she  said ;  "  but 
't  is  on  Letty's." 

"  Thank  ye,"  murmured  Mr.  Kemble. 

"Oh,  there,  now,   George,  I   did  ri't  mean 


A  NINE  DAYS'  WONDER  165 

thet.  Do  talk  sense.  An'  it 's  dooty  on  Sally 
Coe's." 

Mrs.  Kemble  felt  instantly  wary  of  accepting 
this  doctrine  even  by  silence,  not  knowing  pre 
cisely  whither  it  might  lead ;  and  rather  invol 
untarily  she  found  herself  ranged  with  the 
defense. 

"There  's  allers  a  limit  even  t'  dooty,"  she 
said,  scanning  her  sister  alertly  through  her 
spectacles ;  "an'  I  guess  it  's  been  more  than 
reached  in  her  case." 

"  Why,  Letty,  you  said,  a  few  minutes  ago, — " 
remonstrated  her  husband. 

"  I  did  n't  say  any  thin'  o'  th'  kind,"  retorted 
she.  "  You  misunderstood  me,  whatever 't  was. 
I  c'n  tell  y'  what :  ef  I  sh'd  ever  git  t'  be  abused 
th'  way  I  reckon  Sally  's  been,  I  'd  leave  this 
house  quicker  'n  a  wink." 

"  Oh,  no,  y'  would  n't,  ma,"  chaffed  he.  "  Y'  'd 
jest  turn  'round  an'  abuse  me  back.  An'  then 
/  'd  be  th'  one  thet  'd  talk  o'  leavin'." 

Mr.  Kemble's  way  of  putting  things  often  left 
his  hearers  in  doubt  as  to  whether  they  were 
being  complimented  or  the  reverse,  and  his  wife 
now  felt  this  uncertainty.  While  she  scrutinized 
him  questipningly,  Miss  Park  judiciously  took 
up  a  new  thread. 

"I  wonder  whether  she  '11  stay  on  at  her 
cousin's  right  along,"  she  speculated. 

"Yes,  think  o'  thet,"  added  Miss   Harvey. 


166  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

"  Th'  idee  of  her  goin'  an'  quarterin'  herself 
there  on  her  relation,  thet  ain't  got  any  too 
much  herself,  I  take  it,  an'  layiii'  out  t'  stay 
there  on  charity.  I  call  it  shameful." 

"How  d'  y'  know  she  's  on  charity?"  de 
manded  her  sister,  now  fully  aligned  on  the 
defensive. 

"  How  c'd  she  be  on  anythin'  else  ? "  retorted 
Miss  Harvey.  "  Where  c'd  she  git  any  money  t' 
pay  with? — unless  she  stole  it,  an'  I  don't  jedge 
she  's  done  thet." 

"  I  wish  more  people  hed  your  lenient  way  o' 
jedgin',  Sophrony,"  put  in  Mr.  Kemble,  with 
apparent  heartiness.  "  It 's  allers  th'  right  way 
o'  takin'  things,  an'  I  like  t'  see  it.  Now,  I  'd  've 
said  thet  most  likely  she  must  've  stole  th'— " 

"  George !  "  interrupted  his  wife.  "  You  stop. 
I  wish  y'  'd  talk  serious  once  in  a  while.  Th' 
idee  o'  Sally  Coe's  takin'  what  did  n't  b'long  t' 
her ! " 

"  Then  how 's  she  livin'  ?  "  Miss  Harvey  put  in, 
with  a  note  of  triumph. 

"P'r'aps  she  hed  some  little  of  her  own," 
hazarded  Mrs.  Kemble,  vaguely. 

"  Humph  !  I  guess  likely,"  returned  her  sis 
ter,  sardonically.  "  P'r'aps  she  hed  a  big  wad 
o'  shinplasters  an'  greenbacks  behind  a  brick 
up  th'  chimney,  an'  a  hull  lot  o'  silk  dresses  an' 
di'monds  an'  hosses  an'  kerr'ages  laid  by  where 
they  'd  be  handy ;  but  I  don't  believe  it." 


A   NINE   DAYS'   WONDER  167 

"  Sophrony,"  admonished  Mr.  Kemble,  ear 
nestly,  "it  's  terrible  t'  see  you  meddlin'  with 
sarcasm ,  this  way.  Somethin'  '11  come  of  it,  some 
day,  sure.  I  hate  t'  see  th'  habit  growin'  on  ye." 

Miss  Harvey  was  rather  flattered  at  this  trib 
ute,  as  every  one  is  when  styled  a  satirist.  It 
was  Mrs.  Kemble's  next  word,  but  Miss  Park 
deftly  cut  in  again. 

"There  's  one  thing  I  like,"  she  said,  "an' 
thet  's  Sally  Coe's  d'termination,  now  thet  her 
sperrit  is  up.  Fire  an'  water  won't  move  her. 
She  may  be  wrong,  an'  people  may  all  shout  at 
her  thet  she  's  wrong ;  but  those  yieldin'  women 
're  jest  th'  ones  thet  won't  set  down  ag'in  when 
they  've  once  stood  up.  It 's  splendid,  I  think." 

"  Yes,  thet  's  often  come  home  t'  me,"  mur 
mured  the  storekeeper. 

"What  d'  you  think  o'  th'  case  y'rself,  Mr. 
Kemble  1 "  went  on  Miss  Park. 

"  'Bout  Mrs.  Coe's  quittin'  home !  Well,  th' 
Goes  hev  n't  patronized  our  store,  anyway,  f'r  a 
long  while,  so  I  don'  know  as  two  of  'em  goin' 
away  will  make  much  difference  in  th'  trade." 

"  No,  but  sober,  now." 

Mr.  Kemble  met  her  mood  for  the  minute. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  t'  tell  th'  truth,  Pr  once  my 
wife  agrees  with  what  I  think." 

The  spectacles  were  turned  on  him  instantly. 

"What  's  thet?"  questioned  Mrs.  Kemble, 
with  suspicion  in  her  voice. 


168  OLD  BO  WEN'S  LEGACY 

"  I  should  say,"  he  hastily  explained,  "  thet  f'r 
once  I  agree  with  what  my  wife  thinks." 

"F'r  once?"  she  echoed,  not  fully  appeased. 

"  Once  among  many  times,  my  dear,"  he  as 
sured  her,  with  a  bow.  "  As  fur  as  I  c'n  speak 
in  Sally  Coe's  place,  I  'd  rather  run  ag'inst  St. 
Paul  an'  Malachi  an'  th'  Song  o'  Solomon  an' 
all  th'  Tables  o'  th'  Decalogue  t'gether,  than 
house  up  f  r  more  than  a  day  with  sech  a  surly, 
rascally  brute  as  thet  precious  husband  o'  hers." 

It  was  firm,  deliberate,  emphatic  speaking, 
such  as  Mr.  Kemble  was  abundantly  capable  of 
when  he  cared  to  be.  But  his  jesting  manner 
quickly  returned. 

"  I  don't  want  t'  be  sowin'  seeds  o'  discontent 
in  my  own  household,"  he  added  apprehensively. 

"  Never  you  fear,  George,"  returned  his  wife, 
coolly.  "  I  guess  I  'm  stony  soil,  or  they  'd  've 
taken  root  long  ago  without  your  plantiri'." 

"Yes," he  admitted;  "sometimes  it 's  power 
ful  hard  to  raise  a  crop,  even  with  careful 
seedin'." 

"  Huh ! "  sniffed  his  wife,  who  had  no  retort 
ready.  "Lorindy,  you  stay  an'  take  tea  with 
.  us.  Your  table  ain't  set,  an'  there 's  no  use  your 
goin'  home." 

Miss  Park  assented  cheerfully,  and  the  dis 
cussion  was  later  adjourned  to  the  supper- 
table,  where  it  was  waged  with  un diminished 
interest. 


XI 

A   LOVEKS'   QUAKKEL 

ON  the  same  evening,  a  somewhat  unusual 
conversation  was  being  carried  on,  just 
outside  the  Coe  house.  It  was  between  'Vinie 
and  Burt  Way.  Without  waiting  for  her  lover 
to  hear  the  news  of  her  mother's  departure 
from  other  sources,  'Vinie  had  that  afternoon 
sent  him  a  brief  note  by  the  hand  of  little 
Bruce.  It  simply  told  the  fact,  and  added  that 
she  must  see  him  about  something  that  very 
evening.  It  was  not  one  of  Burt's  evenings  for 
coming  over, — as  the  girl  had  latterly  limited 
him  with  singular  but  fixed  strictness  to  certain 
and  infrequent  evenings  in  the  week, — and  it 
was  with  an  undefined  feeling  of  apprehension 
that  he  obeyed  her  mandate  and  hurried  over 
after  supper. 

She  made  him  wait  in  the  rusty  though  neat 
little  sitting-room  while  she  washed  up  the 
tea-things.  Coe  had  gone  up-stairs.  As  she 
came  in  to  him,  he  sprang  up  eagerly  to  kiss 
her  and  pour  out  his  tide  of  questionings  and 

169 


170  OLD 'BO  WEN'S  LEGACY 

sympathy;  but  she  repulsed  the  caress  with 
a  little  gesture,  paying  no  heed  to  his  impul 
sive  remonstrance;  and  taking  up  her  light 
worsted  shoulder-wrap,  which  she  had  placed 
within  reach,  she  led  the  way  out  of  doors  to 
the  foot-path  bordering  the  road  in  front,  where 
they  might  pace  up  and  down  out  of  ear-shot. 

She  was  strangely  quiet,  but  she  answered 
his  eager  queries  about  her  mother  directly  and 
openly.  Burt  had  a  right  to  know,  and  indeed 
there  was  nothing  to  conceal.  His  astonish 
ment  at  it  all  was  immeasurable,  and  though 
she  scrupulously  said  as  little  as  possible  regard 
ing  her  father,  Burt's  indignation  against  him 
waxed  hot  as  she  spoke  the  meager  facts. 

"  'Vinie,"  he  burst  out,  "  we  must  get  married 
right  away, — this  very  week.  I  won't  have  you 
living  under  that  roof  any  longer." 

There  was  instant  intolerance  of  his  authority 
in  her  quick  reply. 

"  We  're  not  going  to  be  married  at  all,  Burt," 
she  said  with  decision.  "I  've  thought  it  all 
out,  and  that  's  what  I  sent  for  you  to  tell 
you." 

"Not  going — "  he  began  blankly.  "What 
the  dickens  do  you  mean,  'Vinie?  Thought 
what  all  out?" 

"  All  this  about  you  and  me,"  she  answered 
clearly.  "  I  've  got  to  take  back  being  engaged. 
I  don't  want  to  be,  any  longer." 


A   LOVERS'   QUARREL  171 

"  Take  it  back  ? "  he  echoed.  "  You  can't.  I 
won't  let  you.  What  do  you  mean?  I  don't 
understand." 

His  tone  was  perhaps  unfortunate,  though  it 
expressed  chiefly  perplexity  and  bewilderment ; 
and  her  own  tone  stiffened  the  more. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  saying  you  won't  let 
me ! "  she  retorted.  "  You  have  n't  the  right  to 
say  that  yet,  remember.  I  'm  free  still;  and 
I  've  decided  to  stay  so." 

Burt  stopped  in  their  walk  and  stared  at  her 
helplessly.  Even  now,  he  did  not  fully  under 
stand.  He  had  not  in  the  least  grasped  the  im 
port  of  her  tense,  deadly  earnestness. 

"  I  mean,"  she  went  on  hastily,  "  that  I  've 
got  to  stay  home  here,  now  that  mamma 's  gone, 
and  look  after  Bruce  and  see  to  a  great  many 
things." 

"  Why,  it 's  just  the  time  when  you  've  got  to 
leave,"  he  broke  in  amazedly.  "  You  can't  'tend 
to  this  house  and  the  work.  You  sha'n't.  It 's 
twice  too  much  for  you,  even  if  your  father  was 
— was  different.  I  won't  think  of  such  a  thing. 
It  's  preposterous,  that  's  all.  Bring  Bruce 
with  you.  We  '11  look  after  him  together." 

"  That  's  out  of  the  question,  Burt,"  she  said, 
almost  curtly.  "  Of  course  I  could  n't  do  that." 

"Well,  it 's  just  as  much  out  of  the  question 
for  you  to  stay  here  and  do  all  this  work.  That 
is,  if  I  have  anything  to  say." 


172  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

"  You  have  n't.  Not  a  single  word,"  she  de 
clared  firmly.  "  I  sha'n't  do  more  than  my  own 
part  of  the  work, — the  same  part  I  've  been 
doing.  But  if  I  did,  I  've  got  the  right  to,  and  I 
mean  to  hold  it." 

She  spoke  with  curious  energy,  and  her 
slight  figure  quivered  a  little  with  a  certain 
excitement  as  she  paced  slowly  on  beside 
him. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  'Vinie,"  said 
big,  honest  Burt,  aggrieved  and  puzzled.  "  Have 
I  done  anything  ?  " 

"  Not  a  thing.  I  've  decided  to  stay  on  here 
at  home,  that  's  all;  and  so  our  engagement 
is  n't  to  hold  any  more." 

"  You  can't  mean  that ! "  he  exclaimed,  grow 
ing  more  and  more  astounded  and  incredulous. 

"  Yes,  I  do  mean  it.     I  mean  every  word." 

"  Well,  you  've  got  to  tell  me  why,"  he  as 
serted.  "Either  I  've  done  something  or  I 
have  n't.  I  have  n't  meant  to,  'Vinie,  really," 
he  pleaded.  "  I  'm  awful  sorry  if  I  have. 
Please  tell  me." 

"You  have  n't  done  anything,  Burt.  I  've 
told  you  that  already." 

"Well,  who  has?  Somebody  has.  Some 
thing  or  other  's  up.  Anybody  been  making 
mischief  ? "  he  demanded  with  swift  suspicion. 

"You  mean  between  us?  Not  a  soul.  I 
would  n't  have  it.  You  know  that." 


A   LOVERS'   QUARREL  173 

"  Well,  then,  what 's  up  1  I  've  got  to  know. 
I  won't  listen  to  such  stuff  as  this  without  a 
reason." 

"Nothing  's  up,"  returned  'Vinie,  little  sof 
tened  by  his  tone,  excusable  though  the  intona 
tion  was.  "  I  've  got  duties  here  at  home  now, 
as  I  said,  and  I  'm  going  to  stay  here  and  look 
after  them." 

"For  how  long?" 

"For  always,  as  far  as  you  and  I  are  con 
cerned."  , 

He  caught  his  breath. 

"  Do  you,  mean  that,  'Vinie ! "  he  asked 
slowly. 

"  Yes,  I  do." 

"Eeally?" 

"Yes;  really." 

"  Think  a  minute  what  you  're  saying." 

"  I  have  thought." 

"  You  've  promised  to  marry  me." 

"  Well,  I  take  the  promise  back." 

"  You  can't." 

"I  can,  too,"  she  flashed  back  defiantly. 
"Who  says  I  can't?" 

"  I  say  so." 

"  That  does  n't  make  it  so." 

Burt  ground  his  teeth.    His  anger  rose. 

"  See  here,  'Vinie,"  he  said  roughly ;  "  I  don't 
believe  you  know  what  you  're  talking  about. 
Something  's  come  over  you.  You  're  upset  by 


174  OLD  BO  WEN'S  LEGACY 

what  's  happened  to-day.  And  you  're  taking 
it  out  on  me." 

"I  'm  not,  either!"  she  indignantly  cried. 
"  I  mean  every  word  I  say,  Burt  Way,  and  I  'm 
going  to  stick  to  it,  too." 

He  stopped  again,  as  they  walked,  and  caught 
her  wrist.  There  was  the  dim  light  of  an  early 
moon,  visible  through  a  filmy  haze  in  the  sky. 

"  Look  at  me !  "  he  commanded  peremptorily. 

She  looked  at  him  unflinchingly,  and  her 
hand  closed  tightly  on  itself  as  he  held  her 
wrist. 

"  You  're  not  telling  me  everything,"  he  said 
fiercely.  "  You  're  keeping  something  back.  I 
know  you  are !  You  've  got  to  tell  me." 

They  stood  eye  to  eye,  neither  daunted. 

"  Is  it  some  other  fellow  ?  "  he  asked  sharply. 

"  No  !  "  she  cried.     "  It  is  n't !  " 

"Then  what  is  it?" 

"  I  told  you." 

"  You  did  n't  tell  me  a  thing,"  he  said  con 
temptuously.  "  That 's  all  nonsense  about  the 
house  and  Bruce  and  all  that." 

She  knew  he  was  right,  and  he  knew  it  as 
well.  After  a  moment  her  gaze  fell. 

"  Let  go  of  my  wrist,"  she  said. 

"  I  will  when  you  tell  me." 

"  Let  go  of  it  now !  "  She  pulled  it  suddenly 
from  his  grasp.  "  You  've  no  right  to  do  that ! " 
she  declared. 


A  LOVEES'   QUARREL  175 

He  laughed  grimly.  "  I  've  no  right  to  do 
anything  now,  it  seems." 

"  No ;  you  have  n't." 

"  I  've  got  a  right  to  ask  that  question." 

Her  glance  dropped  again. 

"  I  don't  know  that  you  have,"  she  returned 
irresolutely. 

"  Well,  I  have,"  he  insisted  vehemently. 
"  And  you  've  got  to  answer  it." 

The  flash  of  rebellion  leaped  again  to  her 
eyes. 

"  Suppose  I  don't,"  she  said  laconically. 

"  You  must,  'Vinie.  You  know  there 's  some 
thing." 

"  S-s-sh !  "  she  said  warningly.  "  Pa  '11  hear 
if  you  talk  so  loud." 

"  I  don't  care."  His  voice  dropped,  however. 
"  I  've  got  to  know  about  this  thing." 

He  confronted  her  determinedly,  his  broad, 
youthful  shoulders  on  a  line  with  her  head. 
She  regarded  him  in  return,  swerved  to  comply 
despite  herself. 

"  All  right,"  she  said  quietly.  "  If  you  want 
to  know,  so  much,  I  suppose  I  may  as  well  tell 
you." 

"  I  guess  I  do  want  to  know,"  he  avowed. 
"A  darned  sight  more  than  you  seem  to 
think ! " 

"  There  's  no  use  swearing  about  it." 

"  That  is  n't  swearing." 


176  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

"  It  's  pretty  near  it.  I  don't  like  it,  any 
way." 

"Excuse  me,  'Vinie,"  he  said  humbly.  "I 
did  n't  mean  anything.  I  did  n't  notice  what  I 
was  saying." 

"I  thought  you  said  /  was  the  one  that 
did  n't  know  what  I  was  saying." 

The  swift  feminine  illogicality  floored  him 
for  the  moment,  as  it  will  floor  the  sagest  of 
men.  No  answer  came  to  his  relief. 

"  Tell  me,  'Vinie,"  he  urged. 

"  Well,  you  sit  down,  there  on  that  stump." 

"  You  too  1 "  he  queried  radiantly. 

"  No,  indeed,"  she  said  shortly.  "  I  'm  goiDg 
to  walk  up  and  down  here  close  in  front  of  you. 
I  can  talk  better  when  I  'm  not  always  looking 
at  a  person." 

"H'm,"  said  Burt,  doubtfully.  He  seated 
himself.  "  Well,  fire  away." 

But  it  was  apparently  not  easy  to  "  fire  away." 
The  girl  moved  up  and  down  before  him  sev 
eral  times  without  speaking. 

"  Well !  "  he  prompted  impatiently. 

"  I  don't  know  how  I  can  say  what  I  mean," 
she  began  haltingly,  "  without  seeming  to  say- 
to  say  hard  things,— about  papa— and  about 
you." 

"Oh,  don't  mind  about  me,"  he  returned 
with  bitterness.  "  And  your  father  won't  hear. 
Do  him  good  if  he  did,  perhaps,"  he  added  under 


A   LOVERS'   QUARREL  177 

his  breath,  for  he  had  a  confused  thought  that 
Garrett  Coe  was  in  some  way  or  other  respon 
sible  for  this  sudden  overturning  of  his  high 
hopes. 

"All  right,  then,"  said  the  girl.  "I  '11  go 
ahead." 

There  was  another  silence. 

"Well,  why  don't  you,  then?"  he  inquired 
with  some  ire.  "Are  you  just  trying  to  fool 
with  me  ?  " 

"  Burt,"  she  said,  breaking  the  pause  with  a 
sudden  effort,  "  I  've  come  to  believe  that  mar 
riage  makes  most  people  unhappy." 

"  Oho  !  "  he  whistled.  "  Is  that  the  tack  ?  So 
does  being  born,  you  might  say." 

"  I  'm  getting  to  believe  that  too.  But  people 
can't  help  that ;  and  they  can  help  getting  mar 
ried.  I  'm  going  to  help  it." 

"  Well,  of  all  nonsense  that  ever  got  into  a 
girl's  head," — he  began,  with  masculine  scorn. 

"You  can  call  it  nonsense  if  you  like,"  she 
said,  with  rapid  utterance.  "  It  is  n't  nonsense 
on  my  mother's  part,  I  can  tell  you,  and  never 
has  been,  as  far  back  as  I  can  remember.  It 's 
been  terrible  hard  truth,  and  I  've  been  knowing 
it  long  before  she  did.  It  is  n't  nonsense  on 
Mrs.  Watkins's  part,  and  people  like  her  that 
have  to  work  to  keep  body  and  soul  together, 
and  no  chance  of  ever  stopping.  Sneezer  Wat- 
kins  seemed  to  be  doing  well  when  she  married 


178  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

him,  I  've  heard  Gran'pa  Sayre  say.  It  is  n't 
nonsense  on  Mrs.  Bradbury's  part,  with  all  this 
awful  worry,  first  about  Charlie  and  now  about 
the  deacon  and  the  church.  It  was  n't  nonsense 
on  Mrs.  Dare's  part,  before  her  husband  died, 
with  a  nagging  little  bully  like  that  to  lord  it 
over  her.  'T  is  n't  nonsense  on  Mrs.  Kemble's 
part,  I  'm  pretty  sure,  for  I  've  heard  she  was  a 
very  different  kind  of  girl.  Nor  on  Mrs.  Reed's 
either,  hard  as  she  is,  for  her  husband 's  a  fear 
ful  sight  harder.  Nor  on  poor  Mrs.  Lorimer's, 
that  's  been  sick  ever  since  her  last  baby  was 
born,  and  Mr.  Lorimer  has  n't  any  patience  with 
her.  I  don't  believe  it  's  nonsense  for  hardly 
any  woman  in  Felton,  if  they  could  only  dare  to 
speak  out  or  if  they  realized  their  own  feelings." 

Truths  and  misconceptions  were  so  inextri 
cably  mixed  up  in  this  impetuous  speech  that 
Burt,  even  though  dimly  discerning  the  en 
tanglement,  was  quite  powerless  to  argue  them 
out  in  detail.  Through  it  all,  too,  he  com 
menced  to  feel,  though  in  remote,  uncompre 
hending  masculine  fashion,  something  of  the 
storm  of  rebellion  against  thraldom  which  had 
for  months  been  gathering  in  the  young  girl's 
breast  and  which  had  burst  with  the  events  of 
the  day. 

"Don't  you  love  me,  'Vinie!"  he  asked  in 
controlled  tone. 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  do  or  not.     If  I 


A   LOVERS'   QUARREL  179 

did,  I  don't  know  that  I  would  ten  years  from 
now.  And  even  if  I  did  all  the  time,  that  does  n't 
make  up  for  everything." 

"Does  n't  it?" 

"No.  Mamma  loves  papa;  at  least,  she  did 
till  to-day,  or  supposed  she  did.  That  has  n't 
helped  her  being  about  the  unhappiest  person 
in  the  world  most  of  the  time." 

"  Your  father's  character  's  got  something  to 
do  with  that." 

"Well,  Burt,  since  you  make  me  tell  it,  I 
don't  feel  sure  of  your  character  either." 

"  What 's  that  ?  "  he  exclaimed  harshly,  leap 
ing  to  his  feet. 

"  There,  now,  that 's  an  evidence  itself,"  she 
said  excitedly.  "  If  you  flash  up  like  that  now, 
what  '11  you  do  later  I " 

"  Who  would  n't  flash  up,  I  'd  like  to  know. 
See  here :  did  you  just  say  that  to  try  me  and 
see!" 

"  No,  I  did  n't.  I  said  it  because  I  thought 
it,  and  because  you  wanted  me  to  say  what  I 
thought.  If  you  won't  sit  down  again,  I  sha'n't 
say  anything  more." 

He  dropped  upon  the  stump  behind  him  with 
an  angry  bump. 

"  I  've  come  to  feel  pretty  afraid,"  she  went 
on,  "  that  some  things  about  you — about  most 
men,  I  guess— are  a  good  deal  like  some  things 
about  father." 


180  OLD   BOWEN'S   LEGACY 

He  glared  at  her  impotently. 

"  Yes,  I  have.  I  don't  mean  that  you  're  like 
him  altogether." 

"  I  should  hope  not,"  he  muttered. 

"  But  you  're  big  and  strong  and  pretty  quick- 
spoken, — you  know  you  are,  Burt;  and  you 
want  things  your  own  way;  and  you  don't 
understand  girls  very  well, — me,  anyway;  and 
you  have  no  idea  about  what  things  count  and 
what  don't,  and  what  things  hurt  and  what 
don't,  and  how  much  little  things  and  big  things 
matter;  and,— oh,  I  don't  know!  There  's  lots 
more." 

"  Don't  stop,"  he  said  sardonically. 

"  Well,  you  're  one  of  the  ones,  I  'm  afraid, 
that  expect  us  women  to  work  and  work  hard. 
You  work  hard  yourself.  I  'm  willing  to  work 
hard  too,  and  I  always  expect  to,  but  I  don't 
want  to  be  expected  to.  Oh,  dear,  you  won't 
know  what  I  mean,"  she  finished  despairingly. 

"It  's  plain  enough,"  he  returned  cuttingly. 
"I  'm  partly  a  blind  pup  and  partly  a  bull 
dog.  I  want  to  set  up  as  a  slave-owner,  and 
you  don't  choose  to  be  the  slave.  Is  that 
it!" 

"  If  you  talk  like  that,  you  just  spoil  it  all," 
she  said. 

"What  is  there  to  spoil?" 

"  You  're  just  putting  us  farther  apart." 

"  Is  n't  that  what  you  want  1 " 


A  LOVERS'  QUARREL  181 

"  I  don't  want  we  should  misunderstand  in  a 
way  like  that.  I  knew  I  could  n't  tell  you !  " 

"  Oh,  you  've  told  me  fast  enough." 

"No,  I  have  n't.  Can't  you  see,  Burt,  just 
for  a  minute  ?  Forget  that  it  's  you,  and  let 's 
speak  as  if  it  was  somebody  else." 

"  That  is  n't  so  easy." 

"Well,  I  don't  care,  anyway."  A  charming 
little  pout  mingled  on  her  face  with  a  very  real 
aloofness  and  hostility.  "You  wanted  me  to 
talk  out,  so  I  'm  not  going  to  mind.  All  I 
say  is  that  getting  married  is  too  much  of  a 
risk.  A  risk  in  a  good  many  more  ways  than 
one.  And  I  don't  care  enough  for  it  to  take  it." 

She  looked  so  pretty,  so  tempting,  in  her  in 
surrection,  as  she  stood  there,  her  slim,  white- 
gowned  figure  dimly  illumined  under  the  hazy, 
moonlit  sky,  that  poor  abused  Burt,  loving- 
hearted  and  earnest-natured,  groaned  in  spirit, 
and  looked  up  at  her  with  the  devouring  gaze 
of  a  lost  soul  looking  on  Paradise. 

"Oh,  'Vinie,"  he  uttered  miserably,  "you 
don't  seem  to  realize  what  all  this  means  to 
me." 

At  the  appeal  a  sudden  look  came  into  her 
eyes  which  he  did  not  see,  and  she  made  an 
instinctive  movement  toward  him.  She  checked 
it  on  the  instant,  yet  her  voice  when  she  spoke 
was  softer  than  before. 

"  I  would  n't  have  you  think  I  think  badly  of 


182  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

you,  Burt,"  she  said,  a  little  unsteadily.  "  For 
indeed  I  don't.  How  could  I  ?  You  've  always 
been  true  and  fair,  and  you  've  borne  with,  lots 
of  my  little  ways,  and  I  know  all  that.  Please 
don't  think  it  's  anything  I  have  against  you. 
It 's  more  against  marriage  in  general." 

"  How  long  has  this  been  coming  on,  'Vinie  I " 

"You  mean  my  feeling  this  way?  Oh,  for 
months.  Ever  since  last  summer  or  spring.  I 
suppose  things  at  home  here  set  me  thinking. 
But  plenty  of  other  things  have  kept  me  think 
ing  since." 

"What  other  things?" 

"  About  other  people,  as  I  was  saying  just 
now;  and  about  life  generally;  and — oh,  all 
sorts  of  things." 

"Oh,  well,"  he  said  hopelessly,  getting  up 
again,  "  if  it 's  come  to  all  that,  I  dare  say  we  'd 
better  break  off,  as  you  say.  I  did  n't  know  I 
made  you  feel  that  way." 

She  was  silent. 

"  Is  this  the  reason  why  you  've  been  so  offish 
with  me  all  this  fall  1 "  he  pursued. 

"  Yes." 

"  Why  did  n't  you  have  it  out  sooner ! " 

"  I  was  n't  clear  enough  myself." 

"  I  should  think  you  'd  have  stopped  any 
way." 

"Why,  I  don't  know." 

"Well,  I  should  think  so.    If  you  've  been 


A  LOVERS'   QUARREL  183 

hating  or  dreading  me  like  that,  all  this  time, 
what  was  the  use  of  keeping  things  up  1 " 

"  I  did  n't  hate  you  or  dread  you,  Burt  dear," 
she  said  softly. 

The  little  word  of  endearment  slipped  out 
before  she  was  aware ;  she  bit  her  lip,  and  hur 
ried  on : 

"  I  mean— it 's  more  the  thing,  not  you.  Oh, 
can't  you  understand  a  little  tiny  bit?  I  mean 
that  getting  married,  the  way  I  see  it  around 
here,  seems  to  me  like  getting  bound, — sold  into 
bondage  almost,  sometimes.  It  is  n't  an  equal 
thing.  The  husband  expects  the  wife  to  take 
hold  and  never  let  go,  even  if  matters  get  bigger 
and  bigger  and  life  grows  harder  and  harder. 
And  she  's  got  to.  He  makes  her,  somehow. 
Or  people  make  her.  I  don't  know  how  it  is  in 
other  places  in  the  world,  but  that 's  the  way  it 
is  here." 

"How  about  being  made  himself?" 

"  She  does  n't  make  him.  He  's  freer.  But 
supposing  he  is  n't,  that  just  means  that  two 
people  are  bound  instead  of  neither  of  them. 
What 's  the  need  of  it  ?  Miss  Park  is  n't  bound ; 
nor  Miss  Harvey;  nor  Miss  Jewett, — nor  even 
her  girl,  Ann  Mead.  And  they  would  n't  be  for 
anything.  I  know  they  would  n't." 

Burt  little  knew  what  material  for  his  side  of 
the  argument  lay  in  the  real  truth  concerning 
at  least  three  of  the  spinsters  mentioned; 


184  OLD  BO  WEN'S  LEGACY 

and  he  made  no  effort  to  demolish  her  con 
tention. 

"No,"  continued  his  former  betrothed,  sum 
marizing  her  stand  with  inflexibility,  "I  'm 
never  going  to  get  married.  I  shall  stay  and 
look  after  Bruce  here  for  a  long,  long  while. 
Papa  '11  never  try  treating  me  the  way  he  has 
mamma.  And  when  I  get  older,  I  shall  have  a 
little  bit  of  a  house  of  my  own,  and  a  cat,  and 
perhaps  some  one  as  'help,'  and  I  '11  live  an 
independent,  interesting,  helpful  life  like  Miss 
Jewett." 

Burt  forbore  to  point  out  the  glaring  defect 
in  this  arrangement,— the  absence  of  even  the 
small  means  which  Miss  Jewett  possessed.  He 
was  very  deeply  agitated  as  he  stood  there  be 
side  the  stump  looking  down  upon  her. 

"  I  can't  really  believe  you  mean  it  all,  'Vinie," 
he  said  earnestly.  "I  don't  half  think  you 
do." 

"  Well,  I  do !  "  she  answered  back,  and  with  a 
finality  that  left  no  doubt.  "I  've  luckily 
looked  ahead  in  time,  instead  of  being  one  of 
the  ten  thousand  Women  who  look  back  when 
it  's  too  late.  They  all  go  tumbling  into  the 
same  trap.  And  every  one  of  them  would  say 
I  was  right  if  they  only  dared  to  speak  out  or 
think  for  themselves." 

"Good  night,"  said  Burt,  abruptly,  and  he 
strode  off  down  the  road. 


A   LOVERS'   QUARREL  185 

"Why,  Burt!"  she  half  called  after  him, 
startled  and  disconcerted.  "  Are  n't  you — " 

But  he  paid  no  heed,  and  went  vigorously 
forward  into  the  dimness  and  distance  until 
his  steps  died  away  and  he  had  disappeared. 

'Vinie  gazed  after  him  blankly.  A  sudden 
catching  of  breath,  half  gasp,  half  sigh,  came 
upon  her  uncontrollably.  Her  eyes  seemed  to 
yearn  after  his  retreating  figure.  An  expres 
sion  of  passionate  longing  came  into  them. 
Then  it  passed  as  she  recollected  herself;  she 
threw  her  head  back,  her  face  stiffened  into 
resolution  again,  and  she  moved  toward  the 
house. 

"  I  'm  glad ;  I  'm  glad !  "  she  repeated  to  her 
self  with  suppressed  emphasis  as  sh6  pushed 
open  the  creaking  gate. 


XII 

CKUSOEHOOD 

MISS  PARK  proved  to  be  quite  right  in  her 
estimate  of  the  general  verdict  regarding 
Mrs.  Coe's  fiery  sundering  of  her  fetters.  The 
weight  of  opinion  was  strongly,  overwhelm 
ingly  disapproving.  Great  as  was  the  odium 
in  which  Coe  himself  was  held,  it  was  felt  that 
open  desertion  of  this  sort  could  not  be  justi 
fied  or  condoned.  The  fact  that  quiet  Sally 
Coe  had  been  driven  to  this  extreme  step  shed 
new  light  upon  her  husband's  traits  for  many 
who  had  not  hitherto  suspected  him  of  such 
unendurable  home  tyranny ;  and  it  was  seen  in 
retrospect  that  she  had  borne  in  silence  many 
things  during  the  past  years  which  no  one 
perhaps  had  adequately  apprehended.  Never 
theless  this  was  deemed  no  sufficient  warrant 
for  her  present  course.  Sympathy,  wide  and 
varied,  was  expressed  and  felt  for  her ;  but  in 
the  final  analysis  it  was  rather  a  siding  against 
her  husband  than  a  siding  with  her.  Strangely 
enough,  those  who  found  most  to  say  in  her 

186 


CEUSOEHOOD  187 

extenuation  or  defense  were  among  the  men ; 
but  even  they  were  careful  to  limit  the  appli 
cation  of  the  principle.  Many  were  inclined 
to  doubt  that  Mrs.  Coe  would  long  hold  to  her 
position ;  but  those  who  knew  her  best,  or  who 
were  the  most  accurate  judges  of  character, 
gave  little  countenance  to  this  doubt.  "  Sally 
Coe  was  a  Mitchell,"  Gran'pa  Sayre  reminded 
several.  "  I  knew  those  Mitchells  over  in  Wes'- 
bury,  forty  year  ago, — they  're  'most  all  died 
out  now.  An'  I  tell  ye,  they  may  n't  've  been 
easy  t'  rouse,  but  once  y'  got  'em  roused —  "  His 
thin  voice  brought  up  with  a  meaning  pause, 
and  he  gave  a  significant  shake  of  the  head. 

One  inevitable  and  universal  effect  was  to 
deepen  the  already  great  animosity  against 
Garrett  Coe  himself.  Partizans  and  critics  of 
his  wife  alike  joined  in  outspoken  utterances 
against  the  farmer.  Probably  no  individual  had 
ever  been  more  unpopular,  more  generally  exe 
crated,  since  Felton  was  first  settled.  Coe's 
house  was  rather  out  of  the  way  of  traffic,  on 
an  unfrequented  cross-road,  so  that  few  had  oc 
casion  to  pass  and  evince  their  hostility;  and 
he  himself  seldom  came  into  the  center  of  the 
village,  and  now,  for  the  day  or  two  since  his 
wife's  departure,  had  kept  strictly  within  his 
own  domain.  Thus  the  popular  feeling  found 
no  direct  expression.  It  was,  however,  little 
allayed  by  this  circumstance. 


188  OLD  BO  WEN'S  LEGACY 

'Vinie's  estrangement  from  her  lover  was,  of 
course,  not  immediately  known,  else  it  would 
undoubtedly,  and  perhaps  with  a  certain  remote 
justness,  have  gone  into  the  general  account 
against  her  father.  Speculation  as  to  the 
girl's  own  plans,  now  that  her  mother  had 
gone,  was  but  little  divided,  it  being  at  once 
assumed  that  the  change  in  affairs  would  merely 
have  the  effect  of  hastening  her  marriage  with 
Burt.  None  contended  that  her  duty  in  any 
wise  lay  with  her  father  and  the  house. 

There  were  a  few,  however,  who  reflected  that 
an  interval,  long  or  short,  must  necessarily 
elapse  before  the  girl  could  even  decide  on  her 
future  arrangements,  and  who  felt  a  kindly 
solicitude  as  to  how  she  and  her  little  brother 
would  fare  in  the  meantime, — it  being  conceded 
that  Mrs.  Coe's  burden  of  house  and  dairy  work 
was  a  heavier  one  than  her  less  hardy  daughter 
could  safely  undertake,  if  such  was  the  girl's 
intention.  Among  those  who  felt  this  were 
Mrs.  Bradbury  and  her  daughters,  and  the  girls 
determined  to  call  promptly  and  ask  'Vinie 
about  her  plans.  The  Marshalls  also  brought 
up  this  question  at  their  home,  and  discussed  it 
with  a  view  to  friendly  intervention.  But  the 
Wheelers,  as  it  happened,  were  a  little  quicker 
to  act. 

Before  noon  of  the  day  following  'Vinie's 
evening  conversation  with  Burt,  Mrs.  Wheeler 


CEUSOEHOOD  189 

made  her  way  to  the  Coe  farmstead.  The  haze 
of  the  night  before  had  thickened  into  a  gray 
autumnal  sky,  and  the  air  was  heavy  and  chilly. 
Mrs.  Wheeler's  motherly  face  was  an  unex 
pectedly  pleasant  sight  to  'Vinie  as  she  opened 
the  door  in  response  to  her  visitor's  knock,  and 
the  girl  returned  the  other's  warm  embrace  and 
kiss  with  a  flush  of  longing  and  a  feeling  of 
real  affection. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  was  the  elder  woman's 
hearty  greeting,  "  I  jest  hed  t'  come  right  over 
an'  see  'bout  all  this  an'  find  out  f  r  myself  how 
things  were  gittin'  along." 

Coe,  who  had  been  sitting  in  a  chair  by  the 
corner  window,  having  come  in  rather  early  for 
the  noon  meal,  rose  reluctantly  and  uncom 
promisingly  as  she  entered. 

"  How  d'  y'  do,  Garrett  ? "  she  said ;  and  her 
wonted  friendliness  of  tone  struggled  curiously 
with  the  dislike  and  condemnation  she  could 
not  but  feel.  Something  in  his  manner  vaguely 
touched  her,  though  he  returned  her  greeting 
briefly  and  gruffly ;  and  the  reserve  in  her  voice 
lessened  as  she  went  on : 

"  I  told  Hiram  I  jest  hed  t'  come  'round  right 
away,  as  soon  's  I  heard  what  'd  been  hap- 
penin'  up  here." 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Wheeler,"  said  'Vinie, 
gently. 

"  I  did  n't  come  t'  pry,  n'r  t'  ask  questions,  n'r 


190  OLD  BO  WEN'S  LEGACY 

t'  intrude  advice,"  went  on  the  good  woman, 
"  an'  I  would  n't  hev  ye  think  so." 

"Nobody  that  knows  you  would  ever  think 
such  a  thing  as  that,"  said  the  girl,  with  sin 
cerity. 

"Well,  I  'm  glad  ef  thet  's  so.  'T  ain't  easy 
t'  be  friendly  an'  not  seem  meddlin'  sometimes. 
But  I  says  to  Hiram,  '  I  've  jest  got  t'  see  thet 
poor  child  over  there,  an'  little  Bruce, — yes,  an' 
Garrett  Coe,  too, — an'  see  how  they  're  all  farm* 
an'  what  they  're  goin'  t'  do,  an'  mebbe  I  c'n 
help  'em  a  little,  some  way ; '  an'  Hiram  says, 
'  thet 's  right,'  an'  I  'd  better  come  right  away ; 
an'  so  I  hev." 

Mrs.  Wheeler's  kindly  loquacity  was  rather 
grateful  both  to  Coe  and  to  his  daughter,  as  both 
were  feeling  some  constraint  from  a  brief  con 
versation  which  the  visitor's  entrance  had  inter 
rupted. 

"  I  s'posed  likely  y'  'd  be  lookin'  f 'r  a  '  help '  f  r 
a  while,"  she  continued,  addressing  the  farmer, 
"  till — till  Sally  conies  back ;  an'  I  only  heared 
this  very  mornin'  thet  Polly  Watkins  has  come 
back  fr'm  livin'  out  at  Hingham,  an'  she  's  th' 
very  one  fr  ye, — strong  an'  clever  t'  work,  an' 
one  thet  '11  take  right  holt." 

"  Sally  ain't  comin'  back,"  returned  Garrett, 
curtly.  "Y'  might  as  well  understand  thet,  t' 
begin  with.  An'  I  ain't  goin' t'  hire  no  help." 

"  Y'  ain't  I    Why,  how  '11  y'  git  along ! " 


CRUSOEHOOD  191 

"  Pa  was  just  talking  to  me  about  it  when  you 
came  in,"  remarked  'Vinie. 

"She  's  th'  one  t'  do  th'  work.  I  've  been 
telliii'  her  so,"  declared  the  farmer. 

"  She  f  Who,  'Vinie !  Gracious  me,  Gar- 
rett ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Wheeler,  indignantly. 
"'Vinie  ain't  built  f'r  hard  work  like  thet. 
She  could  n't  do  it  a  week,  'thout  beiri'  down 
sick.  Y'  don't  reelly  mean  it ! " 

"Yes,  I  do.  She  ain't  so  poorly  as  all  thet. 
She  's  never  been  sick  a  day,  thet  I  re 
member,  sence  she  hed  th'  mumps  once  when 
she  was  little.  She  's  jest  as  well  as  her 
mother." 

"  They  're  very  diff'rent.  'Vinie  ain't  got  th' 
same  make-up  at  all." 

"  Pshaw !  Thet 's  all  nonsense.  Whose  duty 
is  it,  I  'd  like  t'  know,  t'  look  after  this  house 
an'  me  an'  her  brother  if  not  an  own  daughter's  ! 
What  'd  I  bring  her  up  fur !  Jest  t'  set  'round 
an'  play  fine  lady  !  " 

'Vinie's  eyes  blazed  at  this  speech. 

"  She  ain't  said  nothin'  'bout  not  bein'  well," 
went  on  the  farmer. 

"  She  is  well,"  Mrs.  Wheeler  said  wa'rmly. 
"  There  ain't  a  thing  th'  matter  with  her.  But 
she  ain't  equal  to  a  house  an'  farm  like  this." 
She  glanced  around  the  rooms  and  out  through 
the  window  as  she  spoke. 

"Well,  she  ain't  taken  thet  tack  with  me," 


192  OLD   BO  WEN'S   LEGACY 

answered  Coe.  "  She  jest  said  she  would  n't  do 
it,  thet  's  all." 

Mrs.  Wheeler  threw  the  insurgent  daughter 
an  involuntary  glance  of  approval. 

"  I  '11  do  my  part  of  the  work,"  said  'Vinie, 
simply.  "And  that  's  always  been  half,  as 
far  as  I  could  make  mamma  let  it  be  so.  I 
used  to  ache  to  do  more,  sometimes,  when 
she  'd  look  so  tired,  but  she  just  would  n't  let 
me." 

"  Y'  don't  seem  to  ache  t'  do  more  now,"  said 
her  father,  maliciously. 

"No,  I  don't,  papa,  and  I  can't  see  how  it 's 
my  duty." 

"  Whose  duty  is  it  1  How  's  th'  work  goin'  t' 
git  done,  I  'd  like  ye  t'  tell  me  f " 

"Polly  Watkins  'd  be  glad  t'  come  f'r  jest 
her  board  an'  keep, — f'r  a  while  anyway,"  put 
in  Mrs.  Wheeler.  "  I  know,  fr'm  what  I  heared 
thet  Sneezer  said." 

"  I  won't  hev  no  Polly  Watkins,  I  tell  ye,  n'r 
any  other  Polly,"  replied  the  farmer,  angrily. 
"I  ain't  never  lied  t'  keep  help  yit,  an'  I  ain't 
goin'  t'  begin  now.  'Vinie  's  got  to  take  holt, 
an'  thet 's  all  there  is  about  it." 

"  I  'm  not  going  to,  I  told  you,  papa,"  said  the 
girl,  with  quiet  positiveness.  "I  've  been  do 
ing  it  since — since  mamma  left,  of  course,  and 
I  will  for  a  little  while  till  you  can  arrange 
something ;  but  not  after  that." 


CEUSOEHOOD  193 

"  Then  y'  won't  do  it  at  all ! "  stormed  he. 
"Not  even  half.  It 's  all  or  none." 

"What  d'  y'  mean,  Garrett!"  inquired  Mrs. 
Wheeler,  with  rising  hostility. 

"  She  does  th'  work  or  she  leaves  th'  house. 
One  or  th'  other." 

"Then,  'Vinie,  you  come  to  ours,"  said  the 
visitor,  promptly.  "  This  very  day." 

'Vinie  looked  startled. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Wheeler !  "  she  said. 

"  Yes.    Why  should  n't  ye ! " 

"Y'  c'n  take  her,  an'  Bruce,  too,  an'  y'  '11  be 
doin'  me  a  favor,"  growled  Garrett. 

The  man  seemed  to  have  a  faculty  for  making 
enemies.  Good,  easy  Mrs.  Wheeler  was  thor 
oughly  aroused,  and  her  eyes  snapped. 

"  I  'm  not  try  in'  t'  do  ye  any  favor,  Garrett 
Coe,"  she  retorted.  "There  's  precious  few  y' 
deserve,  t'  my  thinkiu'.  But  I  will  take  'Vinie, 
— an'  Bruce  with  her." 

"Oh,  I  could  n't,  Mrs.  Wheeler,"  protested 
the  girl,  utterly  taken  aback. 

"  Yes,  y'  could,  my  dear.  Why  not  ?  Why, 
we  'd  jest  love  t'  hev  ye  come  an'  stay  with  us. 
There  's  poor  Hiram  an'  me  all  alone  an'  lonely 
in  thet  great  big  house  of  ourn,  an'  there  's 
nothin'  we  'd  love  better.  We  've  hed  eight 
childern,  an'  one  by  one  they  've  gone  t'  th' 
grave," — her  voice  broke  a  little,— "'cept  one, 
an'  thet 's  wuss,  mebbe.  An'  we  're  jest  piuin' 


194  OLD  BO  WEN'S  LEGACY 

f r  some  fresh  young  life.  You  allers  was  a  fa 
vorite  o'  Hiram's,  'Vinie." 

"  But — oh,  I  could  n't  do  that.  Go  and  live 
with  you,  and  not  be  able  to  pay  anything  ? " 

"Pay  anythin'?  Dear  heart,  now  what  do 
we  want  o'  pay?  We  've  got  more  'n  enough 
t'  live  on  an' t'  live  on  comf'table.  As  f'r  thet, 
there  's  lots  o'  little  ways  y'  c'n  help  me.  Thet 
Irish  help  of  ours  is  goin'  t'  leave,  an'  I  've  got 
t'  break  in  a  raw  one  nex'  week,  an'  you  c'n 
assist.  An'  y'  c'n  earn  pin-money  by  helpin'  me 
with  th'  light  sewin'.  Why,  I  'd  jest  love  t'  hev 
ye  'round !  "  She  was  really  in  earnest,  and  her 
pleasant  face  glowed  as  she  urged  her  idea. 

"  Y'  've  got  my  permission  t'  hev  her,"  grunted 
Coe,  "  ef  y'  need  any." 

"  Well,  I  '11  take  it,  but  I  won't  thank  ye  f'r  it," 
said  the  old  lady,  defiantly.  "An'  y'  c'n  try 
playin'  hermit  f'r  a  while  an'  see  how  y'  like  it. 
I  don't  blame  Sally  Coe,  not  one  mite,  after  all. 
Come,  'Vinie ;  I  'm  goin'  t'  send  up  f'r  yours  an' 
Bruce's  things  this  very  afternoon." 

Coe  left  the  room  with  a  slam  of  the  door. 

'Vinie  at  first  quite  decisively  declined  Mrs. 
Wheeler's  pressing  invitation.  She  was  inde 
pendent  to  her  finger-tips,  and  she  could  not 
endure  the  thought  of  eating  another's  bread 
without  recompense.  Her  natural  impulse  was 
to  go  to  her  mother  if  she  left  at  all ;  and  yet  she 
saw  that  this  might  be  impracticable.  Mrs. 


CBUSOEHOOD  195 

Wheeler,  meanwhile,  grew  more  and  more  in 
earnest.  The  suggestion  became  increasingly 
alluring  to  her,  for  'Vinie  had  always  had  a 
gift  of  winning  and  holding  affection,  and  had 
been  beloved  at  the  hospitable  Wheelers'  ever 
since  she  was  a  tiny,  golden-haired  child.  The 
prospect  of  hearing  her  clear  young  voice  about 
their  quiet  halls  gave  a  strong  motherly  thrill 
to  the  elder  woman.  Her  heart  went  out  to 
Bruce  also,  and  her  new  opposition  to  the 
father  would  have  led  her  to  welcome  the  two, 
even  had  they  been  far  less  lovable  than  they 
were. 

It  was  not  long  before  'Vinie,  puzzled,  remon 
strant,  and  at  a  loss,  was  made  to  feel  that  her 
visitor  was  honestly  in  earnest,  and  indeed 
would  probably  experience  deep  disappointment 
if  her  impulsive  proposal  should  now  fail  of 
acceptance.  Coe  ate  his  lunch  cold  and  by  him 
self  that  day,  and  dinner  was  woefully  disor 
ganized  at  the  Wheelers'  by  the  goodwife's 
absence,  while  she  and  'Vinie,  having  repaired 
to  the  latter's  bedroom  up-stairs,  debated  for  an 
hour  the  new  project,— Mrs.  Wheeler  pressing 
her  points,  'Vinie  yielding  slowly  and  with  a 
growing  willingness  and  anticipation.  She 
realized  gradually  that  her  mere  presence  in 
the  Wheeler  home,  her  companionship,  and  the 
countless  little  ways  in  which  she  could  be  of 
comfort  and  pleasure  to  the  two  old  people, 


196  OLD  BO  WEN'S  LEGACY 

would  in  actual  fact  far  outweigh  the  debt  of 
hospitality  which  they  themselves  would  so 
lightly  feel.  And  she  was  not  one  to  stint  the 
recompense  which  she  might  render  them,  how 
ever  stoutly  she  might,  under  the  circumstances, 
limit  her  meed  of  slave-work  in  her  father's  case. 

When  Mrs.  Wheeler  left,  she  had  scored  a 
victory.  'Vinie  had  consented  to  come,  for  a 
time  at  least, — conditional,  however,  on  Mr. 
Wheeler's  hearty  and  sincere  indorsement  of  his 
wife's  scheme.  The  sign  of  this  was  to  be  the 
appearance  at  the  Coe  house,  in  the  afternoon,  of 
Hiram's  farm- wagon ;  and  his  man  would  wait 
while  'Vinie  gathered  together  her  things  and 
Bruce's,  and  would  take  them  over. 

Coe  had  gone  off  again,  after  his  lunch,  into 
the  fields,  as  he  had  on  the  occasion  of  his  wife's 
departure,  the  day  preceding.  For  an  hour 
'Vinie  considered  and  reconsidered  her  resolu 
tion,  torn  by  countless  questions  as  to  its  pro 
priety,  its  rightfulness,  its  possible  sacrifice  of 
freedom.  She  broached  the  plan  to  her  brother 
on  his  return  from  school,  and  the  little  boy's 
genuine  and  unfeigned  delight  went  far  toward 
reassuring  her.  Bruce  had  not  yet  realized  the 
finality  of  his  mother's  and  brother's  departure ; 
but  he  was  lonesome  without  Game,  and  in 
addition  he  displayed  a  frank  gladness  to  leave 
his  father  which  might  have  given  Coe  a  sharp 
twinge  had  he  known  it  and  had  he  been  sus 
ceptible  of  any  feeling  on  the  subject. 


CEUSOEHOOD  197 

While  'Vinie's  motives  and  wishes  were  still 
undergoing  conflict,  the  Wheeler  wagon  drove 
up  to  the  front  gate.  Its  coming  seemed  to 
bring  a  kind  of  authority,  arid  almost  before 
she  was  aware,  the  girl  was  busily  engaged  in 
sorting  out  her  possessions.  Before  the  after 
noon  had  fully  waned,  and  certainly  before  she 
had  altogether  realized  the  sudden  change,  she 
found  herself,  with  Bruce,  at  the  Wheelers', 
where  both  the  old  people  welcomed  them  as 
would  parents,  and  where  two  inviting  little 
bedrooms  had  lovingly  been  made  ready. 

Thus  within  the  short  space  of  less  than  two 
days,  the  interval  elapsing  since  the  fire,  Gar- 
rett  Coe  had  not  merely  become  the  most  un 
popular  individual  in  Felton,  but  in  addition 
he  found  himself  antagonized  and  deserted  by 
his  entire  household.  Even  the  hired  man,  who 
had  only  been  taken  on  for  the  summer  and 
fall  work,  disconcerted  him  that  afternoon  by 
declaring  abruptly  that  it  was  the  last  day  he 
should  work  for  him.  The  man  added  that 
he  was  tired  of  being  bullied  and  would  n't 
stand  it  any  longer.  Coe  gave  some  sharp  re 
tort,  but  paid  him  off ;  and  at  six  o'clock,  hunt 
ing  around  in  his  pantry  and  milk-room  for 
the  skeleton  of  a  meal,  he  came  to  realize  that 
a  sailor  marooned  was  not  more  alone  in  life 
than  he. 

Burt  Way  was  one  of  the  first  to  hear,  with 
a  lover's  quick  ears,  of  'Vinie's  sudden  move; 


198  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

and  that  very  evening  he  presented  himself 
eagerly  at  the  Wheelers'  door.  Mrs.  Wheeler, 
knowing  nothing  of  the  preceding  evening's 
occurrence,  greeted  him  with  warmth ;  and 
'Vinie  had  no  recourse  but  to  come  in  to  see 
him  in  the  large,  square  parlor,  Mrs.  Wheeler, 
after  a  few  moments,  judiciously  slipping  out. 

Burt  instantly  attacked  the  subject  from  the 
standpoint  of  'Vinie's  own  reasons  as  first  given. 
There  was  no  longer  possible  excuse  of  her  ser 
vices  at  her  father's  home.  But  his  impetuous 
pleading  was  of  no  avail.  She  was  as  entirely 
firm  in  her  purpose  as  on  the  evening  before. 
And  the  short  interview  ended  only  in  another 
outspoken  protest  from  sorely  pressed  Burt, 
followed  by  his  abrupt  and  rather  unceremo 
nious  exit.  'Vinie,  of  course,  after  this  had 
to  tell  the  Wheelers  the  fact  of  the  broken  en 
gagement.  She  gave  no  reason,  and  the  good 
people  were  seriously  distressed  and  concerned 
at  the  news,  though  they  could  not  press  their 
questionings. 

The  days  passed,  and  life  settled  into  grooves 
again  for  these  members  of  the  Coe  household, 
so  widely  and  determinedly  separated.  Mrs. 
Coe  gave  no  sign  to  her  husband,  but  she  sent 
an  occasional  missive  to  'Vinie,  from  which  it 
appeared  that  she  was  still  at  her  cousin's. 
'Vinie  herself  slipped  quickly  and  tenderly  into 
the  Wheeler  modes  of  living,  and  her  unyield- 


CRUSOEHOOD  199 

ing  behavior  toward  Burt  seemed  to  make  her 
but  the  more  gentle  and  solicitous  in  the  in 
finitude  of  small  ways  which  conduced  to  her 
new  foster-parents'  gratification  and  their  satis 
faction  in  her.  Bruce,  whom  she  looked  after 
watchfully  and  almost  maternally,  was  abun 
dantly  pleased  with  the  change,  and  his  at  first 
frequent  pleadings  for  his  mother  and  brother 
gradually  grew  less,  though  they  did  not  en 
tirely  cease. 

Coe  himself  took  up  his  Crusoehood  with 
dogged  will.  He  forced  himself  to  the  work  of 
two  on  the  farm,  toiling  hard  and  long  in  all 
weathers.  He  looked  after  his  household  needs 
in  a  fashion,  dispensing  with  numerous  super 
fluities  of  dusting  and  cleaning,  but  undertaking 
with  set  face  tasks  to  which  he  was  grotesquely 
unaccustomed.  Few  came  near  him  or  his  place 
intentionally,  and  he  even  made  shift  to  do  his 
own  rough  laundry- work  and  mending.  He 
went  without  store  supplies  for  the  time,  draw 
ing  his  provision  as  far  as  possible  from  actual 
farm  resources.  The  fruit  crop  was  abundant 
and  good  that  year,  and  the  farmer  lived  largely 
on  apples  and  winter  pears.  There  was  also  on 
hand  a  fairly  plentiful  quantity  of  certain  late 
vegetables,  and  the  supply  of  milk,  eggs,  and 
poultry,  though  never  generous,  was  of  course 
sufficiently  constant. 

Thus  the  autumn  wore  away,  and  both  Coe 


200  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

and  his  wife  virtually  dropped  out  of  the  life 
of  the  townspeople.  The  wife  was  remembered 
with  sympathy,  if  with  blame,  and  many  sent 
kindly  messages  to  her  through  'Vinie.  The 
husband  was  thought  of  with  hearty  detesta 
tion,  and  if  he  had  not  already  betaken  him 
self  to  Coventry,  would  have  been  speedily 
sent  there  and  mercilessly  kept  there  by  his 
neighbors. 


XIII 

BEATEN   DOWN 

THE  winter  months  had  come  and  gone. 
The  cold  had  not  asserted  itself  until  late, 
that  year,  and  though  sharp  and  keen  for  a  while 
when  it  came,  had  been  interspersed  with  inter 
vals  of  mild  weather.  This  fact  had  favored  the 
progress  of  Reed  &  Kemble's  new  brick  store, 
the  building  of  which  had  been  vigorously 
pressed  during  the  autumn,  and  its  fitting  up 
pushed  rapidly  with  the  coming  of  the  cold. 
By  the  first  of  February  the  firm  had  relin 
quished  the  temporary  quarters  in  which  they 
had  been  doing  business,  and  had  moved  into  the 
new  building,  which  stood  with  clean-cut  front, 
a  well-built  and  ornamental  feature  of  Felton's 
main  street. 

Bowen's  legacy  had  by  no  means  dropped 
out  of  the  townspeople's  remembrance, — nor 
out  of  the  thoughts  of  Lawyer  Clark,  busy  man 
though  he  habitually  was ;  but  there  had  been 
no  developments  in  this  matter,  although  it  was 
still  a  subject  of  general  curiosity  and  con- 

201 


202  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

jecture,  as  well  as  of  periodical  conference  by 
the  committee. 

On  a  windy  day  in  March,  Mr.  Clark  met 
Miss  Jewett  in  the  street. 

"  I  just  saw  rather  an  odd  sight,"  she  said, 
after  they  had  exchanged  greetings.  "I  was 
passing  along  that  lane  that  runs  from  Wheel 
er's  and  Bowen's  road  to  Garrett  Coe's, — the 
one  old  Mrs.  Henderson  lived  on,  you  know." 

"Yes?" 

"And  I  saw  Garrett  sitting  on  a  log  with 
little  Bruce,  and  whittling  him  out  a  boat  or 
something.  They  'd  evidently  happened  to 
meet,  and  Garrett  was  willing  to  make  friends." 

"  It  was  an  odd  sight,"  said  the  lawyer,  struck 
with  the  circumstance.  "  Did  he  speak  to  you  ? " 

"He  looked  up  and  nodded  in  a  surly  sort 
of  way." 

"My  wife  said  she  saw  him  a  week  or  two 
ago.  She  was  startled  at  the  change  in  him. 
Said  he  looked  haggard  and  old  and  half  sick. 
She  felt  almost  sorry  for  him." 

"He  does  look  every  one  of  those  things. 
But  I  don't  think  I  was  startled  at  it,  after  all." 

"  How  do  you  mean  1 " 

"He  's  had  a  winter  of  hard  labor  and  soli 
tary  confinement." 

"  That  need  n't  do  it.  Coe  's  strong  enough 
and  hardy  enough." 

"  He  is,  as  far  as  work  goes.     Though  I  ima- 


BEATEN   DOWN  203 

gine  that  double  work  and  poor  feeding  don't 
do  any  man  real  good.  But  I  think  there  's 
more  than  that  in  his  case." 

"  You  mean  missing  his  wife  and  all  that  ?  " 
"  Gtarrett  Coe  has  one  trait,  I  think,  that  no 
body  knows  much  of,  and  that 's   a  way   of 
brooding.     He  broods  all  the  time.     Has  done 
it  for  years.     I  had  an  uncle  who  used  to  do 
the  same  thing,  or  perhaps  I  'd  never  have 
noticed  it.     But  I  know  it  is  in  Garrett." 
"  We  all  brood  sometimes,  don't  we  !  " 
"  This  is  different.    This  is  a  kind  of  brood 
ing  that  's  never  done;  that  's  always  taking 
thoughts  and  working  them    over  and    over 
again  and  twisting  them  inside  and  out,  and 
enlarging  and  distorting  some,  and  taking  away 
from  others,  and  never  resting.     It 's  a  terrible 
trait  when  it  gets  going." 

"Why,  do  you  know,  I  believe  some  people 
do  have  that  habit,"  said  Mr.  Clark,  greatly 
interested.  "  I  never  heard  it  dissected  before, 
but  now  you  speak  of  it,  I  remember  one  or 
two  instances  in  my  own  experience." 

"We  all  do  it  now  and  then,  as  you  said. 
But  it  is  n't  often  that  it  gets  a  real  fixed  hold 
on  us  like  that.    At  least,  I  don't  think  so." 
"Well,  it  '11  do  Coe  good  to  brood  a  little." 
"It  may,  or  it   may  not,"  responded  Miss 
Jewett.     "  It 's  never  done  him  any  good  so  far. 
He  's  grown  moodier  and  moodier  every  year, 


204  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

and  he  's  pored  over  his  dislikes  and  resent 
ments  and  animosities  till  it  's  made  him  a 
kind  of  monomaniac." 

"  I  dare  say  you  're  right.  You  're  a  pretty 
keen  observer,  Miss  Jewett,"  remarked  the 
lawyer,  admiringly. 

"  I  don't  think  Garrett  Coe  's  quite  as  black 
in  reality  as  he  's  painted.  That  is  n't  saying 
he  has  n't  been  bad  enough." 

"  I  never  happened  to  hear  what  you  thought 
of  Mrs.  Coe's  leaving,  last  fall,"  observed  Mr. 
Clark. 

"  I  never  said  much  about  it.  Opinions  about 
other  people's  doings,  when  the  doings  are 
done,  don't  help  much,  I  find." 

"Well,  what  did  you  think  of  it!— if  I  may 
ask  the  question." 

"  Wrong  in  principle,  right  in  that  particular 
case,"  promptly  replied  Miss  Jewett.  "Or  if 
not  exactly  right,  the  very  best  thing  she  could 
have  done.  In  fact,  the  only  thing,  as  I  see  it. 
Sometimes  a  state  of  affairs  gets  really  and 
truly  unendurable,  you  know,  and  has  no 
promise  of  ever  mending." 

"  Best  thing  for  both,  do  you  mean  1 " 

"Perhaps  I  ought  n't  to  have  said  'best.' 
It  is  n't  quite  the  word  I  mean.  Though  to 
day's  little  scene  makes  me  think  the  word  is 
usable,  after  all.  The  question  all  depends  on 
this :  Which  way  has  Garrett  Coe  been  moving, 


BEATEN   DOWN  205 

during  these  months,— out,  or  in  deeper?  Has 
he  possibly  been  brooding  for  the  better,  after 
all  his  brooding  for  the  worse  1 " 

"  It 's  a  mightily  important  question,"  said 
the  lawyer,  thoughtfully. 

"Yes,  it  is.  Nobody  can  aid  him,  though. 
That  sort  of  thing  works  away  by  itself,  and 
you  can't  influence  it  a  feather-weight.  But 
it  was  a  vast  sight  better  to  have  something 
or  other  happen  than  for  things  to  go  on  as 
they  probably  were ;  and  that 's  why  I  'm  glad 
Sally  Coe  left.  And  I  have  n't  seen  a  more 
encouraging  sight  in  a  long  while  than  that 
man  whittling  away  beside  his  boy,  this  after 
noon." 

Mr.  Clark  was  much  impressed  with  this 
acute  and  striking  view  of  the  Coe  affair.  The 
thought  that  perhaps,  during  the  long,  silent 
winter  months  just  past,  a  shunned  and  solitary 
soul  had  been  working  out  its  own  salvation — 
or  damnation ;  that  aspiration  had  been  strug 
gling  with  desperation, — and  if  here,  then  the 
more  surely  always  and  everywhere ;  that  this 
man  had  been  fighting,  as  it  comes  to  many  a 
man  to  fight  sooner  or  later  and  single-handed, 
the  battle  of  his  life ;  and  that  they  could  only 
await  the  issue,— all  this  powerfully  seized  and 
held  the  imagination  and  the  broad  sympathies 
of  the  thoughtful  lawyer.  He  realized,  too,  the 
strength  of  Miss  Jewett's  theory  that  in  Garrett 


206  OLD   BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

Coe's  case  the  battle  had  been  salutarily  forced 
by  the  decisive  events  of  the  autumn ;  that  the 
man's  skulking  passions  had  thus  at  last  been 
driven  to  come  out  into  the  open  and  wage  fair 
life-and-death  war, — the  fierce  resulting  mental 
turmoil  giving  no  sign  to  the  careless  world 
outside,  quick-eared  though  it  was.  He  looked 
off  in  the  direction  of  Coe's  house  with  a  certain 
kind  of  awe. 

"  How  very  little  we  know  what  is  going  on 
in  our  midst !  "  he  mused  aloud. 

"  How  little  indeed ! "  assented  Miss  Jewett. 
"  My  guess  here  may  be  the  wildest  improba 
bility.  But  I  've  been  feeling  something  of  it 
all  this  winter." 

"  Ought  n't  some  one — ought  n't  we  to 
have — "  He  hesitated,  with  a  pang  of  self- 
reproach. 

"  No,"  she  said  emphatically.  "  I  don't  think 
this  is  a  case  for  anybody's  intervention.  Once 
in  a  while  a  man  has  to  fight  out  his  own 
fights." 

"You  would  n't  extend  that  generally,  I 
hope,  Miss  Jewett  f"  he  asked  doubtingly. 

"  Heaven  forbid !  What  little  good  we  can 
be  or  do  to  each  other  in  this  puzzling  world, 
let  us  be  and  do  with  all  our  might.  But  some 
times  we  've  got  to  know  when  to  be  wise  and 
stand  aside." 

"  And  you  think  this  has  been  such  a  time  ? " 


BEATEN   DOWN  207 

"  I  think  it  is  still." 

"  Well,  we  've  all  stood  aside,  stiffly  enough  ; 
though  I  can't  say  that  it  came  from  meaning 
to  be  wise.  Mr.  Marshall  has  been  up  once  or 
twice  during  the  winter,  he  told  me,  and  tried 
to  see  Coe ;  but  he  would  n't  let  him  in." 

Miss  Jewett  laughed. 

"  Mr.  Marshall  is  as  good  as  gold,"  she  said 
kindly,  "  but  Garrett  would  be  likely  to  say  that 
there  are  some  places  where  the  Bible  and 
prayer  won't  go.  I  don't  mean  it  irreverently. 
There  's  no  religion  in  Garrett  Coe,  and  never 's 
likely  to  be.  But  perhaps  there  is  some  healthy 
manhood,  buried  down  deep,  that  's  painfully 
struggling  up.  Who  knows  1 " 

"  And  you  think  that  all  this  that 's  happened 
is  giving  it — " 

"Its  last  chance.  Yes.  It  's  been  caught 
midway  for  a  good  many  years.  Now,  it 's  up 
or  down  with  it." 

"  And  he  was  out  there  in  the  lane  whittling 
a  boat  for  Bruce." 

"Yes." 

"  Let 's  hope  he  '11  keep  on  whittling,"  said 
the  lawyer,  with  impulsive  heartiness. 

"  Amen,"  gravely  responded  Miss  Jewett  as 
they  separated. 

Mr.  Clark  did  not  speak  of  this  interview  to 
any  one  except  his  wife.  He  felt  that  a  general 
discussion  of  such  a  momentous  matter, — 


208  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

momentous  as  concerning  the  development  of 
a  man's  inner  self,— was  not  fitting  or  admis 
sible.  Miss  Jewett  had  spoken  with  him  as 
with  an  old  and  tried  and  trusted  friend.  She 
would  speak  with  equal  clearness  and  frankness 
to  certain  others,  if  the  matter  should  come  up ; 
but  not  for  town  talk.  In  fact,  in  turning  the 
matter  over  with  his  wife,  the  lawyer  found 
himself  far  from  optimistic  as  to  the  results  of 
Garrett  Coe's  intensified  introspection.  Indeed, 
Miss  Jewett  herself  had  not  been  pronouncedly 
so.  She  had  done  no  more  than  to  express  a 
hope, — to  hint  at  a  possibility.  And  to  Mr. 
Clark,  on  reflection,  it  seemed,  if  a  possibility, 
certainly  an  improbability.  He  pictured  Coe  in 
his  mind,— the  scowling,  sullen  brow,  the  grim 
mouth,  the  hard,  square  jaw  with  its  square- 
trimmed  chevaux-de-frise  of  iron-gray  beard ;  he 
heard  the  harsh,  mirthless  voice;  he  recalled 
the  traits  and  cumulative  acts  that  had  made 
the  man's  name  a  hissing  and  a  by-word  in  the 
village ;  and  generously  as  he  might  hope  that 
Coe  would  "  keep  on  whittling "  with  his  little 
boy,  now  for  months  a  stranger  to  him,  he  could 
not  feel  that  the  incident  gave  much  promise  of 
ripening  into  better  things.  In  fact,  as  the  days 
went  on,  the  subject  gradually  passed  from  his 
mind,  engrossed  as  he  was  with  other  matters. 
One  of  these  matters,  though  a  minor  one, 
was  some  correspondence  with  a  brother  of  his, 


BEATEN   DOWN  209 

living  in  a  southwestern  State,  regarding  Peter 
Merritt.  Peter  was  not  fully  satisfied  with  his 
quarry-work,  and  had  come  to  Mr.  Clark  for 
guidance  as  to  a  change.  The  lawyer  bethought 
himself  of  his  brother,  who  had  a  small  stock- 
farm  in  southern  Kentucky,  and  wrote  to  him 
regarding  Peter.  One  or  two  letters  had  passed 
between  them,  and  the  suggestion  being  taken 
up,  it  was  arranged  that  Peter  should  go  out  in 
about  two  months.  Peter  had  accepted  his 
rejection  at  Ann's  hands  as  final,  as  indeed  Ann 
herself  had  fully  come  to  regard  it ;  and  per 
haps  rather  to  the  surprise  of  each  of  them,  no 
heartburnings  lingered  on  either  side  after  the 
decision.  Ann  found  her  thoughts  and  activi 
ties  contentedly  and  usefully  employed,  as 
before,  in  her  work  and  her  various  minor  asso 
ciations  with  the  village  life.  She  searched  her 
rather  prosaic,  middle-aged  heart  in  vain  for 
traces  of  repining  or  of  unsatisfied  affection ; 
and  she  perceived  more  and  more  clearly  the 
wisdom  of  Miss  Jewett's  counsel.  Peter,  on  his 
part,  grieved  little,  perhaps  as  having  antici 
pated  little.  He  had,  as  was  said,  quietly 
accepted  the  verdict  as  irrevocable,  and  his 
imaginative  powers  were  too  slight  to  lead  him 
to  dwell  perversely  or  persistently  on  what 
might  have  been.  His  motive  in  seeking  a 
change  of  scene  was  something  quite  different. 
The  routine  and  the  absence  of  all  independent 


14 


210  OLD  BO  WEN'S  LEGACY 

volition  in  his  quarry  labor  was  proving  irk 
some  and  unbearable.  Even  in  the  humble 
capacity  of  farm-hand  and  inan-of-all-work  to 
old  Simeon  Bowen,  he  had  had  latitude  of 
action,  for  of  late  years  Bowen  had  deputed 
much  to  his  management;  and  in  this  Peter 
had  found  an  unfailing  if  lowly  joy.  This  life 
had  been  closed  to  him,  and  no  similar  one  had 
offered  itself.  He  was  not  one  whom  Mr. 
Pickering  or  his  foreman  could  advance  to 
clerical  work,  and  as  the  business  was  arranged, 
there  were  almost  no  other  positions  above  the 
grade  of  workman.  So  Peter  stayed  on,  work 
ing  faithfully  and  uncomplainingly,  and  earn 
ing  good  pay;  but  he  was  unhappy  and  ill  at 
ease,  and  he  gratefully  welcomed  Mr.  Clark's 
successful  effort  to  aid  him  in  shifting  the 
scene. 

In  the  lawyer's  conversation  with  Miss 
Jewett,  one  topic  regarding  Coe  had  been  but 
momentarily  touched  upon,  but  it  was,  for  the 
farmer,  one  of  more  import  than  they  guessed. 
This  was  his  unmistakable  ill  health,  signs  of 
which  would  have  been  visible  to  the  most 
casual  observer,  had  the  man  ever  gone  where 
he  was  seen  or  encountered.  Few  realized  the 
amount  of  work  that  he  had  stolidly,  stubbornly 
undertaken  since  the  day  when  he  was  left 
alone.  His  farm,  though  of  poor  soil  and 
unfavorable  location,  or  partly  because  of  this, 


BEATEN   DOWN  211 

required  the  full  working  energies  of  at  least 
two  or  three  men.  The  scanty  minimum  of 
housework  claimed  more  time  and  labor  than 
he  would  have  credited.  His  food,  ill  assorted 
and  imperfectly  prepared,  was  very  different 
from  that  to  which  he  had  been  accustomed, 
and  its  unsuitableness  had  steadily  told  on  him. 
In  the  late  fall  he  had  contracted  a  heavy  cold, 
followed  by  a  slight  rheumatic  fever.  Save  for 
four  days,  he  had  kept  obstinately  at  his  work 
throughout  the  attack,  but  it  had  left  him  with 
an  unaccustomed  weakness,  and  he  experienced 
frequent  recurring  twinges  of  pain.  Above  all, 
mental  unrest,  whether  or  not  it  was  of  the  kind 
conjectured  by  Miss  Jewett,  preyed  on  him  vis 
ibly,  and  accentuated  the  effects  arising  from 
physical  surroundings.  Garrett  Coe  was  not  the 
man  he  had  been  the  autumn  before,  though  he 
was  only  slowly  conceding  the  fact  to  himself. 
He  went  about  his  work  as  usual,  albeit  with 
lessened  energy ;  but  the  habitual  frown  on  his 
brow  was  becoming  less  a  forbidding  scowl 
and  more  an  indication  of  tremor  and  trouble. 
In  addition,  monetary  difficulties  were  thick 
ening  around  ,him.  He  had  sold  but  little  farm 
produce.  His  four  days'  illness  in  bed  had 
wrought  damage  among  his  live  stock.  He  had 
no  ready  money.  And  in  February,  six  months 
after  his  encounter  in  the  post-office  with  Mr. 
Eeed,  had  come  a  curt  note  from  the  latter, 


212  OLD   BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

left  at  the  house  by  a  clerk,  reminding  him  of 
the  inexorable  interest  again  falling  due. 

Coe  had  found  the  note  on  his  door-step,  and 
over  his  baked  apples  and  milk  he  sat  and 
stared  at  it.  It  forced  him  to  realize,  as  he  had 
not  realized  before,  how  near  to  actual  penury 
he  was.  Even  without  the  mortgage,  his  bar 
ren  and  exhausted  farm  had  long  been  proving 
a  yearly  diminishing  asset,  and  he  knew  it 
would  not  sell  even  for  the  face  of  the  encum 
brance.  In  other  words,  it  was  practically  Mr. 
Reed's  already.  Both  of  his  cows  had  died; 
but  even  if  they  were  alive,  they  would  pass  out 
of  his  hands  with  all  the  rest,  for  the  instrument 
had  been  specially  and  rigorously  drawn,  in 
accordance  with  Mr.  Reed's  invariable  stipula 
tion,  to  constitute  a  chattel  mortgage  as  well, 
and  included  not  merely  the  land  and  buildings, 
but  furniture,  live  stock,  and  all  other  belong 
ings  not  strictly  personal,  "  upon  or  in  any  wise 
connected  with  said  lands,  tenements  and 
hereditaments." 

Little  wonder  if,  at  this  time  in  his  life,  with 
all  his  vindictive  buffetings  of  the  world  thus 
suddenly  repaid  him  at  once  and  with  unspar 
ing  and  remorseless  compounding  of  interest, 
he  should  find  himself  facing  new  problems, — 
or  rather  the  one  never  old  problem  of  his  own 
relations  with  life  and  humankind. 

And  a  little  later  came  a  new  and  crushing 


BEATEN  DOWN  213 

blow.  A  sudden  melting  of  the  snows  on  a 
steep  hillside  bordering  his  farm  caused  a  small 
landslip,  denuding  almost  completely  the  farm's 
most  fertile  slope  and  filling  his  bottom-land 
with  a  chaos  of  wild-strewn  rocks  and  rubble. 
Coe  surveyed  the  disaster  stupidly.  It  meant 
literal  ruin,  as  he  well  knew.  Money  and  time, 
or  the  volunteered  work  of  many,  might  redeem 
the  lost  land  in  small  part ;  but  the  instant  and 
friendly  offices  which  would  have  been  proffered 
by  the  village  to  any  other  of  its  inhabitants 
were  no  longer  at  his  disposal,  as  he  realized 
with  a  little  irrepressible  gulp  in  his  throat ;  and 
money  was  as  little  his  as  his  neighbors'  friend 
ship.  He  stood  there  long,  that  morning,  as  in 
a  daze;  but  his  face  seemed  to  soften  rather 
than  grow  harder,  and  its  dumb  expression  was 
not  one  of  cursing  but  rather  of  chastisement 
and  appeal. 


XIV 

AS  MAN  TO   MAN 

'T  JEST  kind  o'  feel  as  ef  I  'd  ought  to," 
J-  Hiram  Wheeler  said. 

"Well,"  responded  his  wife,  doubtfully,  "I 
would  n't  say  anythin'  t'  keep  ye  back,  Hiram. 
Mebbe  some  one  hed  ought  to,  as  you  say. 
But  I  can't  think  y'  '11  git  let  in." 

"I  'm  goin'  over  t'  try,  anyway,"  said  the 
good  old  farmer,  resolutely.  "We  've  all  let 
him  alone  too  stiddy.  Every  one  in  Felton 
has.  No  man  's  as  bad  as  we  've  treated  Gar- 
rett  Coe.  He  ain't  pitch  an'  he  ain't  p'ison; 
an'  I  'm  sick  an'  ashamed  of  havin'  acted  so 
harsh  an'  stand-offish  all  this  winter." 

"Well,  y'  know,  pa,  we  've  talked  it  over 
more  than  once;  but  when  I  git  t'  thinkin'  of 
how  ugly  he  acted  thet  day  I  took  'Vinie  away, 
an'  what  he  'd  done  t'  her  mother  an'  all,  I  jest 
can't  see  my  way  t'  makin'  it  up." 

"  It 's  all  so,"  answered  her  husband,  his  large, 
serene  face  losing  for  the  moment  its  kindly 
look,  and  his  mellow  voice  sounding  unwontedly 

214 


AS  MAN  TO  MAN  215 

severe.  "There  ain't  nothin'  c'n  excuse  some 
things  he  's  done  an'  been.  They  're  consider- 
'ble,  or  you  would  n't  harbor  'em  up  ag'inst 
him  th'  way  y'  hev.  I  never  knew  ye  t'  be  so 
set  ag'inst  a  person  b'fore,  ma,  as  fur  back  's  I 
c'n  r'member." 

There  was  no  breath  of  blame  in  his  tone, 
but  rather  implied  praise;  for  Mrs.  Wheeler 
was  as  large-souled  as  her  husband,  and,  like 
him,  was  slow  to  anger  and  never  one  to  nurse 
it, 

"  No ;  I  don'  know 's  I  ever  was,"  she  assented. 
"But  somehow,  after  th'  way  he  talked  an' 
acted  to  our  'Vinie  thet  day,  —  still,  mebbe 
you  're  right  in  wantin'  t'  go  over,  Hiram.  I 
would  n't  be  one  t'  say  no.  Thet  landslip  's 
jest  turrible  f  r  him.  I  don'  know  what  he  '11 
do.  An'  there  ain't  many  o'  th'  neighbors  '11 
come  near  him,  I  'm  afeared.  Mr.  Marshall 
may ;  but  like  as  not  Grarrett  won't  see  him.  He 
would  n't  see  him  when  he  's  called  b'fore.  An' 
Nathan  Bradbury  'd  've  been  likely  t'  go,  a  year 
ago ;  but  he  don't  seem  t'  go  much  of  anywheres 
sence  thet  church  trouble.  One  o'  th'  best  men 
thet  ever  breathed,  too,"  she  added  impulsively, 
"spite  o'  what  happened.  But  as  we  was 
sayin',  Hiram,  I  s'pose  now  's  the  time  when 
G-arrett  wants  help  or  a  kind  word,  ef  he  ever 
will ;  an'  I  don't  say  but  thet  y'  're  right  in 
goin'  over  an'  offerin'  it." 


216  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

This  little  conversation  occurred  the  morn 
ing  after  the  catastrophe  on  Coe's  farm,  the 
results  of  which  Mr.  Wheeler  had  just  seen  at 
a  distance,  from  an  accidental  vantage-point,  in 
the  course  of  his  own  outdoor  morning's  work. 
'Vinie  was  out,  and  Bruce  had  gone  to  school. 
Mr.  Wheeler  had  hurried  in  with  his  report, 
feeling  a  momently  increasing  compunction  for 
the  deliberate  holding  aloof  from  his  solitary 
neighbor  through  so  many  months. 

Thus  encouraged  by  his  wife  in  his  prompt 
impulse  to  render  succor  or  at  least  sympathy, 
the  farmer  left  the  house  and  went  over  to 
Coe's.  Coe  was  indoors,  whither  he  had  sought 
refuge  after  an  aimless  and  abstracted  tour  of 
inspection  among  the  ruins  and  debris  that 
had  overwhelmed  the  best  of  his  poor  land. 
He  had  dropped  into  a  chair  and  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands.  A  corner  of  Mr.  Eeed's 
terse  note  protruded  from  the  pocket  of  his 
rough,  threadbare  working- coat,  where  he  had 
placed  it  a  few  days  before. 

He  roused  himself  at  the  sound  of  steps  out 
side  and  Mr.  Wheeler's  firm  knock ;  but  instead 
of  getting  up  and  barring  all  entrance  by 
an  inhospitable  query  through  the  grudgingly 
opened  door,  he  called  out  "  Come  in ! "  and 
experienced  an  odd  thrill  of  gratification  as 
some  one  again  entered  his  house  from  the 
outer  world. 


AS  MAN  TO  MAN  217 

Farmer  Wheeler's  large,  kindly  personality 
was  not  one  to  make  a  host  repent  his  wel 
come.  As  he  entered,  Grarrett  Coe's  heart 
strangely  went  out  to  meet  him.  The  deserted 
man  felt  the  other's  strong  helpfulness,  his 
friendly  sincerity,  as  he  had  never  felt  it  be 
fore;  and  he  sorely  needed  human  comfort. 
He  got  up  impulsively  and  gripped  Wheeler's 
hand. 

"  By  George,  I  'm  glad  t'  see  ye ! "  he  said. 

"Well,  I  'm  glad  V  see  you,  then,"  returned 
Mr.  Wheeler,  with  warm  responsiveness.  "I 
did  n't  know  'bout  comin' ;  but  I  jest  felt  as  ef 
y'  hed  n't  ought  t'  be  let  alone  any  longer." 

"Well,  I  don't  want  t'  be;  I  'm  sart'in  o' 
thet,"  was  Coe's  involuntary  confession.  "  I  've 
hed  enough." 

Mr.  Wheeler  felt  a  swift  sympathy  as  he 
heard  these  words. 

"  Set  down  awhile,"  said  Coe,  trying  with 
brusque  tone  to  cover  the  urgency  of  his  wish. 
"  Y'  ain't  in  a  hurry,  air  ye  1 " 

"Not  a  bit,"  returned  the  other,  dropping 
into  the  cane-seated  arm-chair  which  his  host 
pushed  forward.  "  Thet 's  a  bad  slip  y'  've  hed 
out  there  on  y'r  pastur'." 

"  Fallow  ground  's  gone  too,"  rejoined  Coe, 
briefly.  "  Stripped  clean,  y'  might  say.  But 
somehow  I  don't  seem  t'  be  thinkin'  o'  thet  as 
much  as  o'  some  other  things." 


218  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

"Whatd'  y'mean?" 

"See  here,  Mr.  Wheeler,"  broke  out  Coe. 
"  What 's  th'  matter  with  me !  What  've  I  got 
t'do?" 

"'Bout  what?"  queried  the  other,  a  little 
surprised. 

"'Bout  gittin'  right  with  th'  world.  I  ain't 
right  with  it  now, — I  've  got  reason  enough  t' 
know  thet."  He  gave  a  half -bitter,  half-wistful 
laugh.  "An'  I  'm  mighty  sure  I  ain't  right 
with  myself." 

Mr.  Wheeler  felt  a  great  compassion  rise 
within  him.  As  he  looked  at  Coe,  who  had 
dropped  into  his  old  chair,  his  condemning 
judgments  seemed  gradually  to  yield  place  to 
other  feelings. 

"  I  don't  s'pose  a  man  c'n  ever  be  right  with 
himself  when  he  ain't  right  with  others,"  he 
said  thoughtfully. 

"  No,  he  can't,"  Coe  cried.  "  An'  I  can't  stan' 
it.  I  'd  've  said  I  could.  I  'd  've  said  't  was 
what  I  wanted,  almost.  But  I  tell  ye,  it  's 
diff'rent  when  y'  try  it  once." 

"  There  's  men  thet  c'n  do  it,  p'r'aps,"  said 
Mr.  Wheeler.  "But  I  'm  glad  ef  you  ain't 
one." 

"  I  don't  b'lieve  any  man  c'n  do  it,"  the  other 
declared  vehemently, — "  not  an'  find  life  livable. 
I  can't,  anyway.  What 's  th'  matter  with  me? 
How  'd  I  git  where  I  am?  How  'm  I  t'  git 


AS  MAN  TO  MAN  219 

where  I  'd  ought  t'  be  ?  I  've  been  goin'  over 
things  all  th'  fall  an'  winter,  an'  I  don't  git  any 
wheres.  Ef  I  keep  on  th'  same  way  through 
th'  spring,  I  '11  end  crazy." 

He  paused  and  stared  appealingly  at  his 
visitor. 

Mr.  Wheeler  felt  strangely  moved. 

"How  d'  y'  feel  y'  're  wrong  with  things, 
Garrett  ? "  he  asked.  "  In  what  ways  ? " 

"  Every  way,  so  fur  's  I  c'n  see.  It 's  a  clean 
sweep." 

"Well,  I  dare  say  a  body  c'd  call  it  thet," 
assented  Mr.  Wheeler,  candidly.  "Fam'ly, 
friends,  natur',  an'  y'r  own  self, — all  down  on 
ye.  But  th'  last 's  fust,  I  take  it." 

"  I  don'  know 's  it 's  fust.    I  '11  allow  it 's  wust." 

"An'  y'  want  we  sh'd  talk  it  over  a  leetle?" 

"Yes;  thet 's  jest  what  I  want." 

Mr.  Wheeler  drew  his  chair  over  nearer  to 
Garrett's,  and  the  two  men  sat  facing  each 
other.  The  weather,  following  the  freshet,  was 
soft  for  March,  but  fleecy  masses  of  cloud 
wandered  continually  across  the  sun,  and  the 
low-ceiled  room,  with  its  long-unwashed  and 
weather-streaked  window-panes,  was  dim  in  the 
obscured  light. 

"Well,  Garrett,"  said  the  old  farmer,  "I 
ruther  guess  you  began  it  by  bein'  down  on 
others." 

"P'r'apsldid." 


220  OLD  BO  WEN'S  LEGACY 

"You  know  as  well  's  I  do,"  went  on  Mr. 
Wheeler,  with  a  touch  of  severity  in  his  tone, 
"  thet  it 's  been  a  good  many  years,  now,  senee 
you  hed  a  reel  friendly  word  f'r  people." 

"  Thet 's  true  enough.-" 

"It  's  astonishin'  how  thet  sort  o'  feelin' 
grows,  when  y'  begin  t'  give  it  ground-room. 
It  spreads  along  th'  soil  like  th'  Canada  thistle. 
Ef  y'  like  people,  there  's  lots  in  'em  t'  like. 
Ef  y'  begin  t'  dislike  'em,  there  's  lots  t'  dislike. 
Things  ain't  all  white,  in  th'  world,  n'r  all  black. 
But  even  ef  they  're  gray,  why,  gray  's  a  nice 
enough  color  in  some  ways ;  but  ef  y'  git  t'  con- 
siderin'  every  gray  as  jest  white  dirtied  over,  it 
don't  look  th'  same." 

"  Gray  is  white  blackened." 

"It  's  black  whitened,  jest  as  much.  An'  t' 
my  thinkin',  there  's  a  mighty  sight  more  o'  th' 
white  than  th'  black.  An'  I  '11  tell  ye  another 
thing."  Mr.  Wheeler's  voice  grew  earnest  as 
he  pursued  his  metaphor.  Plain  people  have  at 
times  an  instinctive  fondness  for  figurative  lan 
guage  as  being  far  the  most  graphic  and  expres 
sive.  "  I  '11  tell  ye  this :  thet  in  all  human  natur', 
so  fur  's  I  've  seen,  there  ain't  any  parts  thet 's 
all  black ;  but  there  's  parts  in  plenty  thet 's  all 
white." 

"  I  guess  people  think  there  's  some  thet 's 
all  black  in  me." 

"  Thet  's  b'cause  you  've  b'lieved  there  's  so 


AS  MAN   TO  MAN  221 

much  black  in  them.  Nobody  c'n  go  on  hatin' 
people  an'  not  git  hated  back." 

"  Hev  I  been  hatin'  people  ? "  said  Coe,  ques- 
tioningly,  as  one  awakened  from  a  dream. 

"Hev  n't  ye,  now?" 

"  Why,  I  don'  know.  I  never  put  it  jest  thet 
way.  There  's  things  I  don't  like." 

"Yes.  Well,  they  're  what  y'  've  been  cen- 
terin'  on,  more  an'  more,  f'r  years,  now,  Garrett. 
I  've  been  noticin'  it,  but  it  did  n't  seem  t'  bear 
talkin'  of  t'  ye."  Mr.  Wheeler  in  this  touched 
curiously  close  to  Miss  Jewett's  perception  that 
Coe's  state  of  mind  had  been  one  not  hitherto 
to  be  influenced  by  intervention. 

"  An',  Garrett,"  the  old  farmer  went  on,  lean 
ing  forward  in  his  chair,  "thet  ends  up  by 
makin'  a  body  an  Ishmael.  Fust  it  turned  ye 
ag'inst  outside  people ;  then  ag'inst  y'r  friends, 
or  those  thet  would  be;  an'  then  ag'inst  y'r 
wife  an'  fam'ly.  An'  now  I  guess  it  's  gone 
further  than  Ishmael,  an'  kind  o'  turned  ye 
ag'inst  y'r  self." 

"  I  jedge  likely  y'  're  right,"  said  the  other, 
with  a  sigh.  "  I  wish  I  hed  your  ways  o' 
lookin'  at  things  f'r  a  while." 

"There  ain't  no  patent  on  'em,"  replied  his 
visitor,  "  an'  ef  they  're  any  good,  I  'm  mighty 
ready  t'  show  ye  how  they  're  made." 

Coe  looked  around  at  the  forlorn,  untidy 
room  with  a  shudder. 


222  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

"My  ways  've  brought  me  t'  this,"  he  said 
ruefully.  "  I  ain't  countin'  th'  landslip.  Thet  's 
bad  enough;  but  it  's  made  other  things  seem 
wuss,  somehow.  An'  I  'm  willin'  t'  change." 

"  'T  ain't  easv,"  said  the  older  man,  solemnly. 

v     7  «/ 

"  It  c'n  be  done,  but 't  ain't  easy.  Y'  might  as 
well  make  sure  o'  thet.  Y'  can't  change  habits 
an'  ways  o'  thinkin',  th'  way  y'  change  clo'es. 
They  git  more  like  skin  than  clo'es." 

""  Well,  I  '11  flay  'em  off,  then,"  Coe  rejoined, 
with  grim  determination.  "I  don't  mind  th' 
hurt." 

"  'T  ain't  th'  hurt ;  it  's  gittin'  'em  off  at  all. 
Y'  can't  strip  'em  in  one  hull  piece,  th'  way  y'  'd 
strip  a  carcass;  but  little  bits  at  a  time,  an' 
hard  tuggin'  at  thet." 

Coe  sat  in  silence,  his  thoughts  busy  with 
many  things.  His  questioning,  rebellious  mood 
changed  to  one  softer  and  more  thoughtful.  He 
gazed  with  a  gradually  deepening  insight  into 
his  caller's  serene,  benignant  face. 

"You  've  be"en  wiser  in  life  than  I  hev,  Mi-. 
Wheeler,"  he  said  slowly ;  "  an'  it 's  clear  t'  see 
y'  've  got  more  out  of  it.  I  s'pose  y'  hed  a 
diff'rent  natur',  t'  start  with." 

"At  your  age  or  mine,"  the  other  said,  "a 
man's  natur'  is  pretty  much  what  he  's  made  it. 
He  's  no  right  t'  hark  back  t'  what  he  started 
with.  I  settled  it,  years  ago,  that  a  natur'  hed 
t'  be  made,  ef  y'  wanted  it  right;  an'  I  've  tried 


AS  MAN  TO  MAN  223 

a  leetle  t'  make  mine.  It 's  a  blunderin',  home 
made  job;  but  it  's  better  than  not  tinkerin' 
with  it  at  all." 

"  Well,  I  'm  willin'  t'  try  tinkerin'  with  mine." 

"  Good ! » 

" How  '11 1  go  'bout  it?" 

"  Begin  by  thinkin'  kinder  o'  people." 

"  Huh !  "  said  Coe,  Naaman-like,  a  shade  dis 
appointed.  "  Thet  ain't  much." 

"  It 's  a  grand  sight  more  than  you  imagine. 
Y'r  wife,  f r  instance." 

"My  wife?"  said  Coe,  eagerly.  "Why,  I 
never  thought  bad  o'  her.  'T  was  she  thought 
bad  o'  me,— an'  right  enough.  But  there 
wa'  n't  a  truer,  faithfuller  wife  in  Felton,  an' 
I  've  allers  said  thet." 

"  T'  her ! " 

"  T'  every  one." 

"  Well,  but  hev  ye  ?    You  think." 

"  I  allers  felt  it." 

"We  '11  let  thet  go,  fr  th'  time.  Did  y'  say 
it?" 

"  Why,"  said  Coe,  "  o'  course.  I  don't  say  I 
said  it  as  often 's  I  might  hev ;  an'  I  used  t'  say 
a  lot  I  'd  never  ought  t'  've ;  but  she  knew  it, 
jest  th'  same." 

"  No,  she  did  n't  know  it,  Garrett,  an'  thet 's 
why  she  left  ye.  I  don'  know  what  reason  she 
or  you  gave,  or  what  she  thought  she  was 
leavin'  fur,— 'cause  th'  work  was  too  hard,  or 


224  OLD   BOWEN'S   LEGACY 

'cause  y'  druv  her  too  much,  or  'cause  she 
did  n't  feel  toward  ye  as  she  used  to.  Th'  reel 
reason,  an'  I  know  it  as  well  as  I  'm  settln' 
here,  was  thet  y'  did  n't  feel  toward  her  as  y' 
used  to." 

"I  allers  hev,"  asserted  Coe,  indignantly. 

"  Y'  've  shown  it  precious  little.  You  look 
back,  now,  on  th'  last  ten  years,  an'  stop  t'  think 
how  many  times  y'  Ve  harried  her  an'  worried 
her  an'  blamed  her;  an'  then  how  many  times 
y'  Ve  said  th'  other  thing;  an'  see  which  adds 
up  biggest." 

There  was  silence  for  a  minute.  Then  Mr. 
Wheeler  added: 

"No,  what  y'  ain't  said,  y'  ain't  felt.  Thet 
stands  t'  reason." 

"It  don't,"  contended  the  other.  "Don't  I 
know  how  I  feel  now?" 

"Well,  you  keep  it  up,"  commented  his 
visitor,  dryly.  "  It 's  wuth  all  th'  winter  y'  've 
hed,  an'  more." 

"  I  can't  git  her  back  by  it." 

"I  would  n't  try,  yet  awhile,  Garrett,"  said 
the  old  man,  kindly.  "  'T  ain't  much  of  a  life 
y'  c'n  offer  her  now.  I  want  t'  git  over  an'  hev 
a  look  at  thet  landslip,  by  th'  way.  Then 
mebbe  I  an'  some  o'  th'  neighbors  c'n  set  t' 
work,  this  month,  an'  clear  things  off  an'  give 
ye  a  start." 

"Can't   be   cleared   off,"  replied  the   other, 


AS  MAN   TO  MAN  225 

quietly.  "  Y'  hev  n't  seen  th'  thing  clus  to. 
All  Felton,  workin'  a  year  o'  Saturdays,  could 
n't  more  than  clear  it.  An'  all  Felton  ain't 
likely  t'  work  th'  year.  I  s'pose  they  're  right 
enough,  too." 

"  Ef  y'  begin  t'  think  they  're  right,  they  're 
wrong,"  said  Mr.  Wheeler,  epigrammatically. 

"  How  's  thet  ? " 

"  Y'  think  they  're  right  'bout  holdin'  off,  eh  ?  " 

"Well,  I  guess  I  would  in  their  place," 
rejoined  Coe,  with  an  odd  touch  of  humility. 
"  I  rather  jedge  thet  I  hain't  given  people  much 
call  t'  be  particularly  friendly.  I  was  down  on 
th'  hull  race,  I  guess.  No  reason  why.  They 
never  did  any  thin'  t'  me.  An'  when  y'  look 
over  Felton  people,  one  by  one,  Mr.  Wheeler, 
y'  find  they  're  a  pretty  good  set,  take  'em  all  in 
all.  I  've  been  tryin'  t'  figur'  out,  this  winter, 
what  it  all  was  I  was  so  ag'inst  in  'em,  an'  I 
can't  say  's  I  c'd  find  much  of  anythin'." 

"Thet  so?  Y'  're  on  th'  right  track,  then," 
said  Mr.  Wheeler,  with  satisfaction. 

"  I  bar  ol'  Reed,"  Coe  added  hastily. 

"Well,"  said  the  other,  suppressing  a  smile, 
"  we  '11  let  ye  bar  him  f 'r  a  while.  We  '11  let  ye 
begin  with  others,  an'  p'r'aps  y'  c'n  work  up  t' 
him  later." 

Coe  did  not  follow  up  the  Reed  attack,  as  he 
was  wont  to  do.  He  threw  himself  restlessly 
back  in  his  chair,  and  stared  at  the  ceiling. 


226  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

"I  s'pose  what  y'  say  's  true,"  he  said  pres 
ently  :  "  an'  in  fact  I  've  been  thinkin'  out  some 
o'  th'  same  things  myself.  I  did  n't  lay  out 
t'  be  sech  an  ugly  brute,,  exac'ly ;  I  reckon  it 's 
jest  grown  on  me,  until  I  'd  come  t'  act  wuss 
than  I  reelly  felt." 

"Mebbe  thet  's  so,  Garrett." 

"Thet's  possible,  ain't  it,  Mr.  Wheeler?" 
asked  the  other,  almost  beseechingly. 

"  Sart'in  it  is,"  replied  the  old  farmer, 
promptly.  "  An'  now  y'  've  been  diggin'  down 
t'  see  what  y'  reelly  felt." 

"  Yes ;  an'  't  wa'  n't  so  much,  after  all." 

The  topic  of  the  Reed  &  Kemble  fire  had 
not  been  absent  from  Mr.  Wheeler's  thoughts, 
but  he  could  not  allude  to  it  himself,  and  the 
other  did  not  apparently  have  it  in  mind. 

"  I  want  t'  thank  ye,  Mr.  Wheeler,"  went  on 
Coe,  after  a  pause,  looking  again  at  his  visi 
tor,  "  f'r  takin'— f r  takin'  keer  o'  'Vinie  an'  th' 
boy." 

"  I  did  n't  know  's  y'  thanked  me  much." 

"Well,  I  do.  Ef  I  c'd  only  pay  ye, — or  do 
somethin'."  He  looked  around  the  bare  room 
helplessly. 

"Pshaw!  Don't  y'  talk  o'  payin'.  We  'd 
ought  t'  pay  you  f'r  supplyin'  'em,"  returned  the 
other,  with  a  touch  of  humor.  "  Th'  house  ain't 
been  th'  same  sence  they  came.  An'  it  won't 
be  th'  same  ag'in  when — ef — they  go." 


AS  MAN  TO  MAN  227 

"  I  don't  want  they  sh'd  go.  They  're  a  long 
sight  better  off  with  you  than  with  anythin' 
I  c'n  give  'em  here.  But  you  won't  mind  Bruce 
comin'  'raound  here  now  an'  then,  will  ye  1 " 

"No,  of  course  not.  I  don'  know  's  he  '11 
want  to,  though." 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  will,"  said  Coe,  quickly.  "  I  've 
— I  've  seen  him, — run  across  Mm,  like, — two 
or  three  times  lately,  an'  we  've — " 

"Y'hev?" 

"Yes.  We  've  kind  o'  made  friends,  he 
an'  I." 

Mr.  Wheeler  got  up  and  put  his  hand  on  the 
other's  shoulder. 

"  Good !  "  he  said.  "  Thet  's  th'  best  thing 
yet.  I  swan  I  'm  glad  t'  hear  it.  You  keep  it 
up!" 

"I  'd  like  to.  An'— an'.  'Vinie,— d'  y'  think 
she  'd  come  over  too,  now  an'  then,  an'  visit  a 
leetle?" 

"  'Vinie !  There  ain't  a  week  she  don't  want 
t'  see  ye.  She  's  come  here  a  dozen  times  at 
least,  this  winter ;  but  every  time,  she  's  come 
back  an'  said  all  th'  doors  an'  windows  was 
locked,  an'  you  not  in  sight,  an'  gener'lly  no 
answer.  Two  or  three  times  she  said  y'  roared 
out,  t  Git  away ! ' " 

"I  did  n't  know  it  was  'Vinie,"  murmured 
Coe.  "I  've  yelled  thet  out,  once  or  twice, 
t'  keep  people  off,  likely  enough.  An'  when 


228  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

I  'm  out  at  work,  I  've  allers  locked  up.  So 
'Vinie  's  been  over,  has  she  1 " 

"  Yes ;  an'  I  c'n  tell  ye  it  made  her  feel  pretty 
bad  t'  come  back  without  seein'  ye.  It  'd  jest 
take  th'  heart  out  of  her,  f'r  a  while,  t'  think  y' 
would  n't  even  look  at  her." 

"  Well,  you  tell  her  it 's— it 's  a  little  diff'rent 
jest  now,  will  ye?" 

"I  will,  t'  be  sure.  An'  y'  '11  see  her  over 
here  b'fore  I  'm  home  half  an  hour,  or  I  miss 
my  guess.  She  's  a  wonderful  lovin'  little  girl, 
Garrett;  an'  as  lovable  as  she  is  lovin'.  I 
declare  I  can't  see  why  she  broke  with  Burt 
Way." 

"  What 's  thet  ?  "  asked  Coe,  startled ;  and  Mr. 
Wheeler  realized  as  he  had  not  before  what 
utter  isolation  had  been  the  other's,  that  he 
should  not  have  known  even  of  this  long  past 
happening.  The  visitor  explained  the  matter, 
so  far  as  he  knew  it,  which  was  but  slightly. 
The  bare  fact  was  about  all  that  'Vinie  had 
ever  vouchsafed.  The  two  discussed  it,  but 
could  hazard  no  conjecture  as  to  the  cause. 

Coe  gave  a  rasping  cough. 

"  Thet  don't  sound  right,  Grarrett,"  said  Mr. 
Wheeler,  with  concern.  "An',  t'  tell  th'  truth, 
y'  're  lookin'  powerful  bad,  seems  t'  me.  I 
noticed  it  the  moment  I  came  in.  I  don't 
believe  in  worry  in'  ye,  but  what  's  been  th' 
matter!" 


AS  MAN  TO  MAN  229 

"  Oh,  nothing"  said  Coe,  indifferently,  telling 
him  in  few  words  about  his  attack  of  the 
December  preceding,  and  certain  effects  it  had 
left  over.  "It  's  no  matter,"  he  repeated. 
"  Don't  say  anythin'  'bout  it,  please.  An'  say : 
I  'd  ruther  y'  would  n't  say  anythin'  'bout  this 
talk,  or  me,  or  anythin',  fr  a  while.  I  don't 
feel  like  meetin'  people  jest  now,  an'  I  'd  ruther 
not  hev  'em  'raound." 

"  I  thought  y'  said  y'  'd  hed  enough  o'  bein' 
alone." 

"  I  've  hed  enough  o'  bein'  down  on  people,  I 
s'pose  I  meant." 

"  An'  y'  're  goin'  t'  stop  f  " 

"  I  'm  thinkin'  o'  slackin'  up." 

"  They  '11  go  on  bein'  down  on  you,  ef  they 
don't  know  of  it." 

"  I  don'  know  's  I  mind  thet  so  much.  Any 
way,  one  thing  at  a  time." 

Mr.  Wheeler  was  nonplussed  at  this  unex 
pected  position,  and  sought  to  argue  against  it, 
but  in  vain.  He  then  turned  the  talk  again  to 
the  landslip  and  the  general  state  of  the  farm ; 
and  his  kindly,  persistent  questioning  gradually 
elicited  from  Coe  some  reluctant  facts  about 
the  state  of  affairs,  showing  how  serious  the 
outlook,  even  apart  from  this  last  catastrophe, 
had  come  to  be.  But  for  the  present  there 
were  few  ways  in  which  his  neighborly  help 
could  be  of  effect,  and  Mr.  Wheeler  felt  instinc- 


230  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

lively  that  Coe  would  accept  none  of  a  financial 
kind. 

"An'  y'  don't  want  t'  make  friends  with 
people?"  he  queried,  returning  to  the  former 
topic. 

"No.  Not  now,  anyway.  I  ain't  goin'  t' 
shet  myself  off  as  long  as  I  'm  makin'  a  livin', 
an'  now  come  'raound  whinin'  an'  palaverin'  f'r 
friends  when  it  looks  as  ef  I  can't.  I  'm  ready 
t'  make  friends  with  them;  but  I  ain't  ready  t' 
hev  'em  make  friends  with  me." 

Mr.  Wheeler  saw  and  respected  something  of 
Coe's  feeling. 

"  Y'  '11  let  me  come  over,  won't  ye?" 

"  Sure ! "  responded  Coe,  looking  up  frankly. 

"  An'  my  wife ? " 

"Why, — yes;  ef  she  wants  to." 

"An'  'Vinie  an'  Bruce,  y'  say?" 

"Yes;  I  wish  they  would,"  said  the  other, 
eagerly.  "An'  thank  ye,  Mr.  Wheeler,  f'r 
comin'  'raound  y'rself,  this  mornin'.  I  've  never 
given  ye  much  encouragement." 

"Oh,  yes,  y'  hev, — right  here,  this  very 
mornin'.  I  don't  feel  thet  we  've  talked  out, 
somehow." 

"I  dare  say  we  hev  n't.  We  '11  hev  other 
talks,  ef  y'  like.  You  don't  preach,  Mr.  Wheeler, 
an'  thet  's  why  I  c'n  talk  with  ye.  Nathan 
Bradbury  's  another  one  thet  would  n't.  But 
most  would." 


AS  MAN   TO  MAN  231 

"  I  ain't  goin'  t'  promise  not  to,  f'r  always," 
said  the  other,  warningly. 

"All  right.  I  '11  resk  it.  But  I  tell  ye,  four 
or  -five  months'  lonesomeness  c'n  preach  'bout 
as  well  as  most  ministers." 

Mr.  Wheeler  at  length  took  his  leave,  and  as 
he  had  predicted,  'Vinie  was  at  her  father's  door 
within  just  sufficient  time  for  the  making  of 
the  double  journey.  She  did  not  knock  this 
time,  but  entered  swiftly  and  silently.  Her 
father  was  sitting  by  a  table,  and  his  head  was 
bowed  upon  his  crossed  arms.  The  girl's  heart 
thrilled  with  a  quick  pang  of  remorseful  love, 
and  in  an  instant  her  young  arms  were  about 
his  neck  and  her  head  was  pressing  down  upon 
his. 


XV 

A  NOVEL   PEOPOSITION 

FOR  the  next  few  days  there  was  much 
interest  manifested  in  the  village  in  the 
news  of  Coe's  landslip.  In  the  case  of  any  other 
person,  the  impulse  would  have  been  to  hurry 
thither  and  offer  help.  As  it  was,  there  were 
many  who  felt  the  impulse,  but  few  who 
believed  that  it  would  meet  with  encourage 
ment  from  Coe  himself.  These  few  put  the 
matter  to  the  test  by  boldly  making  their 
way  individually  to  his  house.  But  each  one 
found  it  locked  and  silent.  There  was  no 
response  to  their  knockings.  A  few  ventured 
upon  the  farm  itself,  and  explored  the  scene  of 
the  accident;  but  no  one,  as  it  happened, 
encountered  Coe  there,  and  their  visits  only 
convinced  them  that  village  help,  however  will 
ing,  would  prove  utterly  unavailing  in  view  of 
the  extent  of  the  damage.  It  was  evident  that 
the  farm  was  practically  ruined.  When  this 
became  clearly  known,  there  were  not  wanting 
words  of  sympathy  for  Coe;  in  fact,  a  small 

232 


A  NOVEL  PROPOSITION  233 

revulsion  of  feeling  began  to  take  place  in  town 
on  the  subject  of  the  ostracized  farmer.  The 
things  treasured  up  against  him.  were  not  for 
gotten  ;  but  the  passing  of  the  months  had  sof 
tened  the  impressions  made,  and  many  now 
dimly  felt  that  perhaps  he  had  had  retribution 
enough.  They  had  no  opportunity  to  show 
him  this,  however;  for  he  kept  himself  as 
secluded  as  ever,  and  on  his  own  part  knew 
little  of  his  neighbors'  relaxing  judgment. 

Mr.  Bradbury  alone  gained  an  interview  with 
Coe,  and  that  only  by  determination.  The 
feeling  had  been  upon  him  more  overwhelm 
ingly  than  upon  others  that  the  man  must  not 
be  left  in  his  solitude  any  longer.  The  ex- 
deacon's  first  call  was  unsuccessful.  On  his 
second,  he  espied  Coe  vanishing  from  the  win 
dow,  and  simply  refused  to  take  "no  admit 
tance  "  as  an  answer.  Coe  was  perhaps  on  the 
whole  not  sorry  to  see  Mr.  Bradbury,  for  whom 
he  had  a  peculiar  and  very  strong  respect.  It 
was  an  hour  before  the  interview  was  over, 
and  Coe  followed  his  visitor  to  the  door  for  a 
warm  hand-shake  at  parting. 

Shortly  after  the  catastrophe  to  the  farm, 
Coe  hitched  up,  one  afternoon,  and  drove  over 
to  Hingham.  He  had  a  small  amount  of  farm 
produce  on  hand  over  and  above  his  imme 
diate  needs,  and  he  preferred  to  market  it  in 
Hingham,  not  merely  because  he  could  get 


234  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

slightly  better  terms  there  than  in  Felton,  but 
because  he  did  not  wish  to  be  seen  in  his  own 
village.  He  drove  around  it  by  a  slight  detour, 
and  disposed  of  his  little  stock  in  Hingham  at 
fair  prices.  It  took  several  of  the  few  dollars 
received  to  make  certain  absolutely  necessary 
purchases ;  and  as  he  emerged  finally  from  one 
of  the  Hingham  stores  with  two  or  three  care 
fully  tied  parcels  in  his  hand,  he  realized  dis 
consolately  that  his  tiny  capital  stock  had  been 
sadly  diminished. 

Putting  his  packages  in  the  wagon,  he 
strolled  rather  aimlessly  down  the  sidewalk, 
peering  abstractedly  into  the  unpretending  store 
windows.  He  had  no  further  errands  to  do, 
yet  he  felt  in  no  hurry  to  drive  back  to  his 
forsaken  house.  The  gentle  bustle  of  the 
town  street  was  agreeable  to  him,  the  visit  was 
a  welcome  change,  and  it  was  a  pleasure  to 
linger  about  in  the  bright  March  afternoon  and 
scrutinize  the  new  faces,  and  forget  himself 
and  his  carking  cares  for  a  while.  He  tried  to 
enjoy  to  the  full  the  passing  hour,  and  wan 
dered  along,  noting  every  feature  of  the  scene 
about  him. 

He  had  stopped  in  front  of  a  high  fence 
inclosing  a  wide  vacant  lot,  and  was  studying 
with  listless  interest  the  occasional  bills  and 
posters  pasted  upon  it.  One  rather  attracted 
his  attention.  It  announced  a  performance  for 


A  NOVEL   PROPOSITION  235 

that  evening  by  one  Monsieur  Franco,  cele 
brated  professor  of  legerdemain.  The  perform 
ance  was  to  be  in  the  town  hall  at  half-past 
seven  o'clock,  and  the  various  illusions  and 
feats  of  magic  with  which  the  "  professor  "  was 
prepared  to  startle  the  audience  were  enumer 
ated  in  telling  and  polychromatic  scare-heads. 
The  climax  of  the  exhibition  was  to  be  reserved 
until  the  last,  the  bill  announcing  that  the  pro 
fessor  would  conclude  by  "publicly  cutting  to 
pieces  one  of  Hingham's  most  prominent  citi 
zens,  and  putting  the  pieces  together  again,  in 
full  view  of  the  audience." 

Coe  was  idly  poring  over  the  placard,  when 
he  heard  a  voice  behind  him : 

"  Ah,  I  see  you  read  ze  bill." 

Coe  turned,  and  encountered  a  suave-looking 
person,  with  dark  complexion  and  eyes,  and 
long,  black,  flowing  side-whiskers. 

"Are  you  coming  to  ze  performance,  eh?" 
the  newcomer  asked  in  friendly  tone. 

"  Can't,"  said  Coe,  briefly.  "  I  don't  live  in 
town.  Got  t'  drive  back  t'  Felton." 

"  Felton  ?    Where  is  zat  ? " 

"  It 's  a  place  near  here." 

"You  live  zere?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Could  I  give  zere  iny  performance,  some 
night?" 

"  You  mean,  is  th'  place  big  enough  ? " 


236  OLD  BO  WEN'S  LEGACY 

"  Yes ;  is  it  beeg  enough ! " 

"Why,  I  don'  know,"  said  Coe,  doubtfully. 
"  There  are  shows  there  once  in  a  while." 

"Iszereahall?" 

"They  've  got  a  town-meetin'  hall  thet  is 
pretty  fair-sized." 

"  I  weel  come,"  said  the  Frenchman,  with  de 
cision.  "You  weel  help  me,  eh?" 

"If"  Coe  gave  a  short  laugh.  "I  guess 
not." 

"  Oh,  but  yes,"  urged  the  other.  "  I  know  no 
one  zere.  I  cannot  make  ze  arrangement 
alone." 

"  Well,  I  'm  afraid  y'  won't  git  me  t'  help  ye." 

"  Mais  pourquoi  ?  "  Monsieur  Franco  grew 
interested  in  his  new  plan.  "  Look  here. 
You  stay  and  go  to  my  performance  to-night. 
You  can  take  supper  wis  me  at  ze  hotel,  and 
drive  to  your  home  after.  I  gif  you  a  free 
ticket.  You  see  if  ze  show  is  good,  eh  ?  and  if 
it  is  good,  you  make  ze  arrangement  for  Fel- 
ton." 

"  But  I  don't  want  to,  I  tell  you,"  returned 
the  other,  impatiently.  "  Why  sh'd  I  go  'raound 
makin'  y'r  arrangements  !  " 

"  You  like  to  see  my  performance,  eh  I " 

"  Oh,  I  'd  like  thet  well  enough." 

The  professor  stepped  to  the  fence  with  an 
important  air,  and  laid  his  ringer  on  the  lower 
lines  of  the  poster. 


A  NOVEL  PROPOSITION  237 

"  You  see  zat,  eh ! " 

"Yes,  I  see  it." 

"  I  cut  a  man  to  pieces.    You  haf  read  1 " 

"Yes.    What  of  it!" 

"It  is  most  exciting.  I  haf  made  much 
reputation  in  New  York  State." 

"  I  dare  say." 

"  To-night  you  shall  come  behind  ze  scenes. 
I  show  you  how  it  is  done.  Zen  you  let  me  try 
it  wis  you  in  ze  performance  in  Felton." 

"  Th'  dickens  I  will !  "  said  the  farmer,  with 
a  sniff  at  this  cool  proposal.  He  felt  a  grim 
amusement  in  trying  to  picture  himself  thus 
unselfishly  furthering  his  townspeople's  inno 
cent  enjoyment. 

"  I  gif  you  twenty  dollars." 

"What's  thet?" 

"Yes.     Twenty  dollars." 

"  Nonsense ! " 

"Not  nonsense.  Listen.  You  are  well 
known  in — how  you  call  it! — Felton, — eh?" 

"  Yes,  I  'm  well  known  enough,"  returned 
the  other,  with  inward  satire. 

"  I  must  haf  a  man  well  known,  is  it  not ! 
Zen  people  weel  come.  Sometimes  I  must  pay. 
It  is  good  beesness." 

Coe  was  becoming  rather  attracted  by  the 
idea,  after  first  being  strongly  repelled.  The 
sum  named  seemed  a  large  one  in  his  present 
circumstances,  and  he  needed  money  sorely. 


238  OLD  BO  WEN'S  LEGACY 

"  Y'  can't  afford  t'  pay  twenty  dollars,"  he 
said  incredulously. 

"Do  I  not  know?  Figurez-vous.  I  charge 
each  ticket  feefty  cents,  and  twenty-five  for  ze 
children.  If  I  announce  to  cut  up — what  is 
your  name,  eh  I " 

"Coe,-G-arrett  Coe." 

"If  I  announce  to  cut  up  Grarrett  Coe 
instead  of  some  not  known  man,  some  working- 
man,  zere  weel  be  forty  people  more  weel  come. 
Zere  is  ze  twenty  dollars.  I  lose  nossing.  And 
you  help  me  make  ze  arrangements  into  ze 
bargain." 

Coe  stood  silent.  He  was  little  versed  in 
average  returns  from  such  entertainments,  and 
had  no  means  of  knowing  whether  the  pro 
fessor's  calculations  were  reasonable  or  other 
wise.  However,  that  was  not  his  affair.  If  the 
other  chose  to  take  the  risk,  well  and  good. 

"I  pay  you  fife  dollars  to-night.  You  get 
ze  rest  in  Felton  before  ze  performance.  Zat 
makes  you  sure,  eh  1 " 

Coe's  reflections  went  on.  The  prospect  of 
thus  appearing  before  Felton  in  public  assem 
bled  was  supremely  distasteful,  almost  unthink 
able.  Yet  why  should  he  not  1  He  was  shrewd 
enough  to  realize  that  he  would  prove  even  -a 
better  drawing  card  than  the  enterprising 
Frenchman  imagined ;  in  fact,  the  house  would 
probably  be  packed,  not  so  much  for  the 


A   NOVEL   PROPOSITION  239 

entertainment  as  to  catch  once  more  a  glimpse 
of  the  long-secluded  hermit,  whom  a  certain 
atmosphere  of  mystery  had  of  late  come  more 
and  more  to  surround.  And  his  appearance  in 
this  unique  role  would  be  a  sensation  indeed. 
Coe  laughed  within  himself,  even  while  he  shud 
dered. 

"  You  agree,  eh  ? " 

"I  can't  make  y'r  arrangements,"  answered 
the  farmer,  sullenly.  "I  don't  go  about  in 
town  much.  I  'd  ketch  myself  goin'  'raound 
stickin'  bills ! " 

"Very  good,"  acquiesced  Franco,  coolly. 
"You  do  not  want  to.  So.  I  cannot  inseest. 
But  you  haf  not  to  stick  ze  bills.  Of  course 
not.  You  gif  zem  to  ze  painter  or  ze  carpenter 
or  some  one  in  ze  town,  eh? — you  pay  him  a 
dollar,—/  weel  pay  him  ze  dollar,— and  it  is 
done,  n'est  ce  pas  f  " 

Coe  thought  of  Tom  Secor,  and  reflected  that 
the  carpenter  would  very  willingly  undertake 
the  job  of  bill-posting,  and  would  also  attend 
to  hiring  the  hall ;  so  that  he  himself  need  not 
appear  in  the  matter  until  the  eventful  evening 
itself. 

"Zen  you  weel  not,  eh?  Very  good,"  said 
the  professor,  turning  away. 

"Yes,  I  will,"  said  Coe,  suddenly.  "It  's  a 
bargain." 

"  You  weel  accept  ? " 


240  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

"Yes." 

"  So.  And  you  weel  come  wis  me  and  see  ze 
performance  zis  efening,  so  as  to  know  how 
you  haf  to  do ! " 

"  Yes.  Lucky  I  allers  carry  thet  ol7  lantern 
in  th'  wagon,  t'  git  home  by." 

"  Very  good.  If  you  weel  be  at  ze— let  me 
see— ze  Central  Hotel  at  six  o'clock,  we  weel  haf 
supper  togezzer,  eh?— I  pay  for  ze  supper,— and 
we  weel  go  to  ze  hall  after." 

Coe  nodded,  and  the  Frenchman  strolled 
away.  The  farmer  stood  for  some  time,  endea 
voring  vaguely  to  summarize  and  reduce  to 
order  his  ideas  and  views  on  this  uncommon 
incident.  His  eyes  glistened  a  little  as  he 
thought  of  the  twenty  dollars.  Appearing 
before  the  Felton  public  as  a  man  in  process 
of  vivisection  was  perhaps  repugnant,  but  it 
was  infinitely  less  so  than  appearing  before 
them  as  a  mendicant, — an  alternative  which 
seemed  to  menace  him  sternly.  With  twenty 
dollars  and  the  sum  remaining  on  his  day's 
trading,  he  could  pay  his  mortgage  interest, 
and  thus  at  least  gain  an  interval  of  precious 
time  to  turn  in. 

He  made  his  way  musingly  back  to  his  horse 
and  wagon,  and  arranged  for  its  care  for  the 
evening  at  a  friendly  farrier's,  as  he  was  not 
prepared  to  pay  stabling  fees.  He  wandered 
about  the  streets  in  the  waning  afternoon,  and 


A   NOVEL   PROPOSITION  241 

at  the  hour  appointed  repaired  to  the  Central 
Hotel,  where  Franco  awaited  him.  They  sat 
down  to  an  excellent  supper  of  steak  and  pota 
toes  and  brown  bread  and  hot  biscuit  and  cold 
slices  of  lamb  and  preserved  peaches  and  cake 
and  milk  and  coffee,  and  it  seemed  to  the  ill- 
fed  farmer  that  he  had  never  tasted  anything 
so  good  in  his  life.  He  ate  ravenously,  and  the 
professor  watched  him  with  discreet  surprise. 
Monsieur  Franco  asked  him  several  questions 
about  Felton  and  himself  and  other  matters, 
which  he  answered  more  or  less  cursorily ;  and 
his  host  explained  to  him  how  the  large  printed 
bills  which  he  always  had  on  hand  would  be 
filled  in  with  the  place,  date  and  hour  at  the 
bottom,  and,  with  a  number  of  small  bills  for 
distribution,  would  be  sent  to  him  in  a  day 
or  two,  as  soon  as  they  could  be  struck  off. 

"  Send  'em  to  Thomas  Secor,— S-e-c-o-r,"  said 
Coe,  "an'  I  '11  fix  it  with  him." 

The  professor  made  a  note  of  the  name.  He 
added  that  he  was  staying  in  Hingham  for  a 
few  days,  but  that  he  had  evening  engage 
ments  in  neighboring  villages  for  most  of  the 
time.  Hingham  was  on  the  railroad,  and  a 
number  of  places  could  be  conveniently  reached 
by  rail,  bringing  him  back  by  late  train  again 
to  town.  The  day  was  Monday ;  and  they  fixed 
on  Friday  of  that  week  for  the  performance  in 
Felton. 

16 


242  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

"I  weel  drive  over  and  drive  back,"  said 
Franco.  "  I  shall  take  supper  wis  you,  eh  ? " 

Coe  was  a  little  embarrassed,  and  stumblingly 
explained  that  he  lived  alone,  and  that  he  was 
afraid  this  would  not  be  practicable,  sorry  as 
he  was.  The ,  other  looked  surprised,  but 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  As  you  like,"  said  he.  "  I  weel  haf  supper 
here  early,  before  driving  over.  Ze  drivers  here 
weel  know  ze  road,  eh  ? " 

Coe,  between  inouthfuls  of  cake  and  pre 
serves,  assured  him  that  they  would,  and  they 
finished  the  meal  in  silence.  They  adjourned 
to  the  office,  where  the  professor  produced 
cigars  and  ordered  a  small  cup  of  clear  coffee. 
He  had  not  taken  coffee  during  supper.  The 
farmer  felt  strangely,  blissfully  content  in  the 
memory  of  that  hearty  and  delicious  meal,  and 
he  smoked  his  cigar,  quiet,  absorbed  in  retro 
spective  enjoyment,  until  the  time  came  for 
them  to  repair  to  the  hall. 

The  exhibition  was  a  good  one,  the  French 
man  succeeding  in  various  showy  and  clever 
tricks,  and  doing  some  good  juggling.  The 
closing  feature  of  the  evening,  though  it  prob 
ably  would  not  have  startled  a  metropolitan 
audience,  proved  fully  adequate  to  thrill  the 
less  sophisticated  though  alert  Hinghamites. 
Coe  was  behind  the  scenes  on  the  platform,  and 
saw  all  that  was  done.  One  of  the  prominent 


A   NOVEL   PEOPOSITION  243 

storekeepers  of  the  town  had  good-naturedly 
consented  to  pose  as  the  victim  of  the  dissec 
tion,  and  two  other  citizens  were  brought  up 
on  the  stage  to  see  fair  play.  The  storekeeper 
was  bound  by  them  firmly  to  a  door  at  the 
back  of  the  stage,  a  light  rope  being  passed 
several  times  around  his  body  and  arms  and 
secured  to  projecting  pegs  in  the  wood.  A 
dark  cloth  curtain,  sliding  on  a  wire  overhead, 
was  then  interposed  between  him  and  the  audi 
ence  for  a  minute,  the  professor  remaining  in 
sight  and  making  impressive  passes  in  the  air 
with  a  death's-head  baton.  The  cloth  was  then 
flung  back  again,  and  disclosed  the  victim 
apparently  in  precisely  the  same  position. 
He  moved  his  head  from  side  to  side,  his  eyes 
were  open,  and  he  answered  audibly  a  question 
addressed  to  him.  Franco  made  a  few  passes 
as  though  to  send  him  to  sleep ;  and  then  with 
much  voluble  talk  and  many  dramatic  flour 
ishes  he  approached  the  bound  figure  and  with 
a  huge  carving-knife  began  to  detach  the 
right  leg.  It  came  off  easily  under  his  ma 
nipulation,  and  he  triumphantly  displayed  it, 
trouser-legged  and  booted,  to  the  audience, 
and  carefully  placed  it  on  a  table,  pointing 
significantly  to  the  wet  blood  on  his  knife  and 
hand.  Several  of  the  spectators,  especially  the 
children,  experienced  considerable  alarm  at  this, 
and  in  fact  the  proceeding  looked  not  a  little 


244  OLD   BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

ghastly.  The  left  arm,  with  its  gloved  hand, 
followed  the  leg;  and  the  remainder  of  the 
figure,  bound  stiffly  against  the  door,  with  the 
face  in  plain  view,  and  the  eyes  closed  as  in 
death,  presented  an  undeniably  gruesome 
sight.  Lastly,  the  Frenchman  passed  his  knife 
around  the  neck  of  the  figure  and  flung  a 
black  cloth  over  the  head.  He  left  it  there  an 
instant,  and  then  he  was  seen  to  lift  the  head 
from  the  body,  a  round  object  enveloped  in  the 
cloth,  the  headless  trunk  remaining  in  position. 
At  this  culmination,  the  audience  was  really 
electrified,  and  many  of  them  scarcely  knew 
whether  they  were  witnessing  a  tragedy  or  not. 
There  was  a  slight  movement  toward  applause, 
but  it  was  swiftly  suppressed,  and  they  awaited 
in  almost  anxious  silence  the  next  advertised 
process  of  reconstructing  the  dismembered 
victim. 

Coe,  behind  the  scenes,  was  of  course  able  to 
observe  the  whole  modus  operandi.  He  saw 
how  the  door  to  which  the  storekeeper  was 
bound  was  opened  quickly  inward  out  of  sight 
when  the  dark  curtain  was  interposed ;  how 
another  similar  door,  with  a  lay  figure  bound 
to  it,  carefully  dressed  like  the  storekeeper,  was 
noiselessly  set  in  its  place  by  an  attendant; 
and  how  the  storekeeper  himself,  the  door  to 
which  he  was  bound  being  pushed  up  close 
behind  the  other,  was  enabled  to  insert  his 


A  NOVEL   PEOPOSITION  245 

face  and  head  in  the  hole  just  above  the  lay 
figure's  shoulders.  During  the  dissection  that 
followed,  Coe  tiptoed  around  to  a  point  at  the 
side  of  the  stage  from  which  he  obtained  a 
partially  front  view,  and  he  could  thus  see  how 
startlingly  perfect  the  illusion  really  was  as 
viewed  from  the  front.  He  returned  to  the 
rear  in  time  to  see  the  storekeeper  withdraw  his 
head  during  the  moment's  interposition  of  the 
piece  of  black  cloth ;  and  a  dummy  wooden 
sphere  was  instantly  substituted  by  the  atten 
dant,  enveloped  in  the  cloth  by  Franco,  and 
carried  off  in  his  hands,  the  hollow  through 
which  the  head  had  protruded  being  instantly 
closed  by  a  neatly  fitting  disk  of  paneling. 

The  process  of  rehabilitation  was  successful, 
and  to  many  seemed  a  decided  relief.  Laying 
the  wrapped-up  head  on  the  table,  the  garru 
lous  professor  proceeded  to  restore  to  the 
figure  first  the  missing  arm  and  then  the  leg. 
Lastly,  with  many  new  flourishes,  he  ap 
proached  it  with  the  enveloped  head.  His 
own  form  hid  things  for  an  instant  from  view ; 
and  when  the  cloth  was  withdrawn  from  the 
head,  the  latter  was  seen  serenely  in  place,  and 
the  well-known  lineaments  of  the  storekeeper 
good-humoredly  contracted  into  a  grimace  at 
the  spectators. 

There  was  now  at  last  a  burst  of  applause; 
and  when  the  large  black  curtain  had  been 


246  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

drawn  forward  and  flung  back  once  more,  the 
two  men  who  had  occupied  seats  on.  the  stage 
were  invited  to  come  forward  and  release  the 
happily  resuscitated  figure;  and  the  store 
keeper,  alive  and  hearty,  stepped  forward  upon 
the  stage  and  bowed  his  acknowledgments  to 
his  townspeople's  plaudits. 


XVI 

TREASURE-TROVE 

AS  Coe  jogged  off,  that  night,  setting  out  with 
/~\.  lantern  alight  for  his  dark  ride  home 
ward,  he  felt  a  certain  contempt  for  an  audi 
ence  that  had  been  so  easily  fooled  and  in  part 
genuinely  startled  by  such  a  facile  illusion.  He 
had  been  able,  from  his  position,  to  see  also 
how  several  of  the  other  tricks  were  done,  and 
they  seemed  to  him  absurdly  simple.  But  the 
audience  had  been  undeniably  held  and  satis 
fied,  and  Franco's  receipts  must  have  been 
gratifyingly  ample.  The  professor's  five-dollar 
bill,  duly  tendered  at  parting,  lay  crisp  in  Coe's 
pocket,  along  with  the  remaining  proceeds  of 
his  day's  small  trade;  and  as  he  abstractedly 
shook  the  reins  along  his  horse's  back,  he  felt 
that  the  magician's  business  was  not  such  a  bad 
one,  after  all,  and  found  himself  not  sorry  that 
he  had  happened  to  encounter  this  particular 
exponent  of  the  profession. 

He  had  driven  about  two  miles  along  the 
Hingham  pike  leading  to  Felton,  when  he  dis- 

247 


248  OLD   BOWEN'S   LEGACY 

cerned,  in  the  dim  light  thrown  ahead  by  the 
lantern,  a  small  figure  trudging  slowly  forward 
on  the  road.  He  quickly  overtook  it.  To  his 
astonishment,  he  saw  a  small,  big-eyed,  black- 
haired  girl,  who  halted  at  the  approach  of  his 
wheels  and  ran  imploringly  to  the  side  of  the 
wagon. 

"  Oh,  please,  please  take  me  up,  mister !  "  she 
cried  in  an  imploring  little  voice.  "  I  'm  so 
frightened,  all  alone  here  by  myself;  an'  I  've 
walked  a  whole  lot,  an'  I  don't  know  where  I  'm 
going,  or  what  I  'm  going  to  do,  or  anything." 

The  voice  ended  in  a  sob. 

Garrett  Coe,  amazed,  was  out  of  the  wagon 
at  the  word,  and  his  arm  was  around  the  child. 
His  voice  sounded  unwontedly  tender  as  he 
spoke. 

"What  's  th'  matter,  little  one?  What  're 
ye  doin'  out  here  all  alone  at  this  time  oj 
night?'' 

"  I  'm  running  away,"  said  the  disheveled 
little  figure,  confidingly,  yet  with  determina 
tion. 

"  Runnin'  away  I " 

"  Yes,  I  am.  Papa  'd  gone  out  for  the  even 
ing,  an'  he  did  n't  lock  the  door,  an'  I  just  put 
on  my  shoes  an'  coat  an'  things,  an'  ran  down 
stairs  an'  out  of  the  hotel,  an'  nobody  saw  me." 

"What  're  y'  runnin'  away  fur?" 

"  Papa  frightens  me  so." 


TREASURE-TROVE  249 

"  Who  is  y'r  papa  ?    What 's  y'r  name  ? " 

"Julie  B.  Joline,"  she  said  with  quaint  pre 
cision. 

Coe  did  not  know  the  name. 

"  What  does  y'r  papa  do  t'  ye  f  "  he  asked. 

"  He  gets  crazy  an'  comes  in  an'  hits  me." 

The  farmer  felt  a  blaze  of  indignation,  and 
the  protective  instinct  rose  within  him.  He 
sat  down  on  a  roadside  stone  and  took  the  little 
girl  on  his  knee.  It  was  a  strange  and  sweet 
comfort  to  him  to  feel  her  trustful  clinging. 

"  Tell  me  some  more  'bout  him,"  he  urged. 

But  the  child  would  tell  very  little.  She 
seemed  apprehensive  and  thoroughly  unnerved 
at  the  mere  mention  of  her  father,  and  could 
hardly  be  brought  to  talk  of  him.  By  dint  of 
questioning,  Coe  learned  that  they  did  not  live 
in  Hingham,  but  were  staying  there  at  the  Hing- 
ham  House  for  a  time ;  and  that  the  man  had 
occasional  violent  fits  of  insanity  or  passion, — 
Coe  could  not  quite  ascertain  which, — when  he 
would  lock  himself,  with  shrewd  promptness, 
in  his  rooms,  where  he  was  secure  from  outside 
observation,  and  would  terrify  his  timid  little 
daughter  with  strange  ravings.  Often  he 
would  even  beat  her.  She  showed  Coe  some 
ugly  wales  on  her  arm.  The  child  had  made 
previous  but  unsuccessful  attempts  to  escape, 
and  to-night  had  stolen  desperately  out  again, 
speeding  fearfully  along  the  turnpike,  with 


250  OLD  BO  WEN'S  LEGACY 

no  guiding  impulse  save  a  growing  and  over 
mastering  fear. 

The  very  bringing  up  of  the  matter  distressed 
the  poor  child  the  more,  and  she  began  to  cry 
convulsively.  Coe  wanted  to  ask  again  who 
the  father  was,  and  what  was  his  business,  but 
she  was  clearly  in  no  state  to  answer.  He 
felt  himself  in  a  dilemma.  It  would  be  sheer 
cruelty  to  return  the  little  one  to  her  parent, 
at  least  in  her  present  condition  of  excitement 
and  fright ;  and  he  could  think  of  no  acquain 
tances  in  Hingham  to  whom  he  could  take  her. 
On  the  other  hand,  he  was  scarcely  prepared  to 
kidnap  or  abduct  her.  Yet  as  he  sat  with  his 
arm  around  the  child,  trying  lamely  to  reassure 
her,  that  strange  joy  in  her  trustingness  stole 
again  upon  him.  He  knew  nothing  of  the 
father,  but  clearly  the  man  was  no  fit  parent. 
A  swift  resolution  came  to  him. 

"Well,  now,"  he  said  comfortingly  and  with 
decision,  "I  '11  tell  ye.  You  git  up  into  th' 
wagon  'long  o'  me,  an'  I  '11  take  ye  t'  my  house— 
f r  a  while,  anyway.  'T  ain't  much  of  a  house, 
an'  I  live  all  alone;  but  I  've  got  a  daughter 
thet  '11  jest  love  t'  come  over  an'  look  after 
ye." 

"  Papa  '11  hunt  for  me." 

"Let  him  hunt,"  returned  Grarrett,  with  a 
grim  chuckle.  "  He  won't  find  ye  f'r  a  while, 
thet 's  sure ;  we  '11  keep  it  secret.  An'  when  he 


TEEASURE-TROVE  251 

does,  we  '11  hev  Lawyer  Clark  see  ef  he 's  got  th' 
right  t'  take  ye,  seein'  he  treats  ye  like  thet." 

Coe  had  for  the  time  resolutely  put  aside  the, 
to  him,  important  questions  of  ways  and  means 
of  providing  for  this  new  charge.  His  heart 
was  strongly  stirred.  The  child  was  tired  out 
with  the  excitement  of  her  escape  and  the  long 
walk.  As  he  lifted  her  up  and  swung  her  gen 
tly  into  the  wagon,  he  felt  a  tender,  defiant 
sense  of  proprietorship  in  his  "find,"  and  an 
impulse  to  hold  her  against  all  the  world.  He 
had  so  little,  now.  She  fell  asleep  on  his 
shoulder  as  he  drove  on.  He  determined  not 
even  to  question  her  further  for  the  next  few 
days,  but  to  give  her  little  mind  a  chance  to 
rest  from  its  terrors  and  feed  itself  on  new 
scenes  and  thoughts. 

When  he  at  last  unlocked  the  door  of  his 
dark,  still  house,  it  was  with  the  feeling  that  a 
ray  of  light  and  life  had  unexpectedly  entered 
it  again. 


XVII 

THE   CATASTROPHE 

THE  Friday  evening  of  the  advertised  per 
formance  had  come.  For  two  days,  the 
multicolored  posters  had  adorned  the  Felton 
barn-sides,  and  a  generous  pile  of  hand-bills 
with  fuller  particulars  had  been  distributed 
among  Felton  homes  and  scattered  about  on 
the  store  counters.  Tom  Secor  had  attended 
to  all  this,  and  in  addition  had  made  the 
arrangements  for  the  hall,  and  had  seen  to  the 
lighting  and  seating,  and  the  few  local  proper 
ties  required  by  the  professor's  instructions. 
Coe  had  taken  him  freely  into  the  secret,  going 
down  to  his  shop,  quietly  and  unobserved,  on 
the  evening  following  the  return  from  Hing- 
ham.  The  carpenter  agreed  to  act  as  the  pres 
tidigitator's  assistant  behind  the  scenes,  Coe 
giving  him  directions  about  fitting  in  the  door 
and  partition  at  the  back  of  the  stage  for  the 
final  trick,  and  explaining  how  it  was  done. 

Little  Julie  had  made  herself  instantly  and 
confidingly  at  home  in  her  new  surroundings. 

252 


THE   CATASTROPHE  253 

'Vinie,  who  came  over  daily  now,  and  who  in 
deed  would  have  come  home  to  stay  if  her 
father  had  not  opposed  it  on  her  own  account, 
was  immeasurably  astonished  to  see  the  new 
comer,  on  the  morning  after  Coe's  return  from 
his  trip.  She  took  the  child  at  once  into  her 
affections,  and  fitted  her  out  delightedly  from 
her  own  small  wardrobe.  Coe  told  her  all  he 
knew  of  the  circumstances  of  the  escape.  'Vinie 
was  rather  aghast  at  first,  but  the  spirit  of  ad 
venture  took  possession  of  her  as  it  had  taken 
possession  of  her  father,  and  they  agreed  that 
for  a  while  at  least  the  child  should  be  held 
against  all  comers,  and  the  whole  occurrence 
kept  a  secret, — the  Wheelers  alone  being  told 
of  it.  They  also  agreed  that  it  was  wise  not 
to  harass  Julie  with  further  questions  at  pres 
ent.  She  visibly  shrank  from  the  topic,  and 
was  happy  only  when  able  to  forget  it.  G-ar- 
rett  felt  that  he  had  learned  enough  to  warrant 
him  in  the  course  he  was  pursuing,  and  if  not, 
he  did  not  very  much  care,  saying  to  himself 
determinedly  that  he  would  pursue  it  anyway. 
There  came  no  rumor  from  Hingham, 
through  the  stage-driver  or  otherwise,  of  a 
lost  child.  Whoever  the  father  was,  he  was 
keeping  quiet.  Probably  he  had  been  through 
this  experience  before,  and  not  being  greatly 
worried,  found  it  better  to  bide  his  time  and 
carry  on  a  still  hunt  than  to  raise  a  hue  and 


254  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

cry  and  possibly  bring  out  the  facts  regarding 
his  abuse  of  the  child  and  his  own  condition 
of  mind.  At  all  events,  Julie  remained  unmo 
lested,  and  she  developed  a  quick  and  demon 
strative  affection  toward  her  new  protector. 

The  latter's  indignation  over  the  child's  ill- 
treatment  waxed  rather  than  waned,  as  he  saw 
how  she  blossomed  out  in  this  change  of  atmo 
sphere.  He  felt  a  growing  willingness  to  defy 
her  father  openly,  if  the  latter  should  turn  up, 
and  less  and  less  concern  as  to  guarding  the 
secret  of  her  whereabouts  so  sedulously. 

Garrett  Coe's  full  name,  as  the  central  figure 
in  the  finale  of  the  approaching  exhibition,  had 
of  course  been  conspicuously  blazoned  forth  by 
the  posters,  and  the  news  had  speedily  spread 
among  the  more  distant  farms.  The  professor 
had  reckoned  more  shrewdly  than  he  knew. 
Everywhere  the  surprise  and  interest  were  im 
mense,  and  many  a  family  that  ordinarily 
might  not  have  thought  of  coming  to  the  per 
formance,  promptly  determined  to  do  so.  In 
fact,  there  were  few,  whether  or  not  able  to 
afford  it,  who  would  willingly  stay  away.  Pub 
lic  opinion  had  much  softened  toward  Coe ;  but 
there  were  still  many  who  were  prepared  to  hiss 
him,  as  against  those  who  would  applaud. 

'Vinie  and  the  Wheelers,  the  only  persons 
with  whom  he  came  in  contact  in  the  interval, 
were  of  course  astonished  when  he  told  them 


THE   CATASTEOPHE  255 

of  his  agreement,  as  he  made  a  point  of  doing 
before  the  bills  came  out.  He  gave  his  reason ; 
and  while  the  three  felt  a  little  dismay  at  the 
idea,  they  rather  welcomed  anything  which 
would  take  him  once  more  among  his  fellow- 
men,  and  they  offered  but  slight  remonstrance. 

On  the  evening  announced,  Coe,  with  'Vinie 
and  his  newly  adopted  charge,  had  just  finished 
supper  in  the  kitchen,  when  there  was  the 
sound  of  wheels,  and  a  minute  afterward  some 
one  came  around  the  side  of  the  house,  and  a 
knock  was  heard  at  the  door.  'Vinie  had  come 
over  from  the  Wheelers'  for  the  meal,  bringing 
with  her  a  delicious  loaf  of  fresh  white  bread, 
a  pat  of  new-made  butter,  and  a  generous  con 
tribution  of  mutton-chops,  which  she  broiled 
with  artistic  finish,  Her  father  relished  the 
meal  almost  as  much  as  he  had  relished  the  one 
at  the  Central  Hotel  in  Hingham.  At  the  knock 
all  started.  'Vinie  discreetly  hurried  Julie  out 
of  the  room,  and  Garrett,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  unwillingly  opened  the  door.  The  visi 
tor  proved  to  be  Monsieur  Franco  himself. 

"Hullo,"  said  Coe,  admitting  him  rather 
ungraciously.  "  I  thought  y'  said  y'  was  comin' 
over  a  little  later  an'  was  goin'  t'  drive  right  t' 
th'  hall.  How  'd  y'  know  y'r  way  up  here?" 

"Oh,  I  knew  ze  way, — zat  is,"  explained  the 
professor,  "  ze  driver  he  find  ze  way.  I  sought 
better  I  come  here  first  and  see  from  you  eef 


256  OLD   BOWEN'S   LEGACY 

all  is  right.  I  haf  had  supper,"  he  hastened  to 
add,  with  a  glance  at  the  scanty  remaining 
fragments  on  the  table. 

"  Oh,  everythin'  's  all  right,"  answered  Coe. 
"  It  's  all  fixed  jest  as  you  wanted,  an'  I  don't 
see  why  it  should  n't  go  off  all  straight.  We  '11 
drive  down  t'  th'  hall  right  now,  ef  y'  say  so, 
an'  look  things  over." 

"You  haf  cheeldren,  eh!"  asked  the  new 
comer,  his  restless  black  eyes  noting  the  three 
chairs  around  the  table  and  a  child's  frock  lying 
on  another  across  the  room.  "You  said  you 
lived  alone,  is  it  not  1 " 

"I  do  live  alone;  or  rather  I  did.  My 
daughter  lives  near,  and  she  comes  in  once  in 
a  while." 

"  And  zis  is  your  daughter's  ?  "  asked  Franco, 
with  satire,  going  over  to  the  distant  chair  and 
picking  up  the  frock. 

"No,  it  is  n't,"  said  Coe,  bluntly.  "Thet 
belongs  t'  a  child  I  found  runnin'  away  fr'm 
Hinghain,  an'  I  don't  keer  who  knows  it." 

"  I  did  not  know  a  child  vas  run  away  from 
Hingham." 

"Well,  there  was, — th'  night  I  was  drivin' 
back  fr'm  your  show."  Coe  briefly  detailed  the 
circumstances.  "  There  's  no  use  makin'  any 
secret  of  it.  I  could  n't  keep  her  in  hidin'  all 
her  life.  But  her  father  '11  hev  hard  work 
gittin'  her  back,  I  c'n  tell  ye." 


THE   CATASTROPHE  257 

"  What  is  his  name,  eh  !  " 

"  Joline,  she  said." 

"  I  do  not  know  ze  name,"  said  the  professor, 
musingly. 

"  He  's  a  brute,  anyway.  Think  of  his  goin' 
crazy,  like  she  says,  an'  beatin'  her !  I  '11  hev 
th'  law  on  him  ef  he  tries  t'  git  her  away  fr'm 
here,  an'  we  '11  clap  him  in  th'  jail  or  th'  asylum, 
I  don't  keer  which." 

The  Frenchman  gave  one  of  his  shrugs,  and 
turned  to  another  topic. 

"Haf  you  secured  a  good  asseestant  ? "  he 
asked. 

"  Fust-rate,— Tom  Secor,  th'  taown  carpenter. 
Could  n't  be  better.  Door  all  made,  pegs  in, 
bolt  on,  an'  every  thin',— though  I  can't  see 
why  y'  wanted  a  bolt.  I  've  showed  him  his 
part  like  a  book." 

"  Good !     And  ze  takin'  ze  tickets  ? " 

"  They  've  been  sellin'  at  Eeed  &  Kemble's. 
Tom  's  got  Peter  Merritt  t'  sell  an'  take  at  th' 
door." 

"  He  is  honest,  eh  ? " 

Coe  laughed.  "I  reckon  so.  Folks  don't 
thieve  much  in  these  parts.  They  hev  their 
faults,  but  I  guess  stealin'  ain't  one  of  'em." 

The  professor  produced  three  more  five- 
dollar  bills. 

"  Zis  is  for  you,"  he  said.  "  I  am  honest  too, 
eh?" 

17 


258  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

"  Looks  so,"  returned  the  farmer,  pocketing 
the  money.  "  "Well,  now,  s'pose  we  start  down 
right  away,  an'  give  ye  half  an  hour  or  so  at 
th'  hall  t'  make  sure  every  thin'  's  all  right." 

"  Zat  is  good.    Wait." 

The  professor  went  out  to  his  conveyance 
and  returned  with  a  bundle. 

"Here  is  ze  coat  and  pants  and  gloves  you 
weel  wear,"  he  said.  "  Zey  weel  fit  quite  well. 
You  weel  put  on  ze  coat  and  pants  now,  eh  1 " 

"All  right,"  assented  Coe,  and  he  took  the 
bundle  and  went  up-stairs  to  put  the  garments 
on.  His  boots  he  had  already  blacked,  and 
when  he  had  donned  a  clean  shirt  with  turn 
down  collar  and  black  tie  and  had  put  on  the 
black  frock-coat  and  dark  trousers,  he  felt  quite 
oppressively  dressed  up  as  he  appeared  before 
the  admiring  'Vinie.  'Vinie  was  to  take  Julie 
over  to  the  Wheelers',  where  the  child  would  be 
left  in  charge  of  their  help  for  the  evening. 
Bruce,  who  was  a  little  older,  was  to  go  with 
the  rest  to  the  entertainment.  Coe  went  down 
stairs  again,  after  they  had  exchanged  a  few 
words  about  the  evening,  and  found  the  pro 
fessor  just  reenteringthe  kitchen  from  out-doors 
with  a  dipper  of  drinking  water  in  his  hand. 

"  I  had  much  thirst,"  the  visitor  gracefully 
explained,  "and  zere  was  no  water  left  on  ze 
table,  so  I  go  out  and  help  myself  from  ze 
bucket  at  ze  well." 


THE  CATASTROPHE  259 

"  I  'm  glad  y'  knew  th'  way,"  responded  the 
farmer.  "  It 's  good  water  I  've  allers  bed  here. 
Now,  ef  y'  're  ready,  we  '11  go." 

He  took  his  old  wide-brimmed  black  felt  hat, 
and  the  two  left  the  house  and  went  out  to  the 
buggy  waiting  in  the  road.  There  was  a  driver 
from  Hingham,  and  the  floor  and  the  rear  of 
the  box  were  taken  up  with  various  bundles 
and  packages  containing  the  conjurer's  prop 
erties.  The  two  men  squeezed  into  the  seat 
beside  the  driver,  and  they  all  drove  down  to  the 
hall,  where  they  found  Secor,  and  where  there 
proved  to  be  plenty  to  arrange  and  attend  to 
during  the  final  half -hour. 

Even  before  their  arrival,  the  hall  had  begun 
to  fill.  There  were  no  reserved  seats,  and  every 
one  sought  to  come  early.  Peter  Merritt,  sitting 
importantly  behind  a  table  at  the  entrance  door, 
found  himself  steadily  busied  in  taking  or  sell 
ing  tickets  and  giving  change,  and  the  deaf  old 
janitor  soon  discovered  that  the  rows  of  benches 
would  be  insufficient,  and,  with  one  or  two  vol 
unteers,  began  to  hurry  in  extra  chairs  from  an 
adjoining  room. 

The  hall,  of  fair  size,  was  not  precisely 
adapted  for  entertainment  purposes,  but  it  was 
all  that  Felton  possessed.  There  was  scaffold 
ing  for  a  stage,  which  was  put  up  on  occasions 
like  the  present.  It  was  an  unusually  high 
stage,  and  inconveniently  inaccessible  from  the 


260  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

front,  save  by  a  small  movable  set  of  steps  at 
one  end.  As  there  were  no  flies,  or  points  of 
side  entrance  to  the  stage,  most  lecturers  and 
showmen  were  forced  to  ascend  it  by  these 
steps,  either  before  or  after  the  curtain  was 
drawn  aside.  Secor's  construction  of  a  rough 
partition  across  the  rear  where  the  stage  nar 
rowed,  and  of  a  door  cut  through  this,  gave  a 
small  space  behind,  where  Coe  and  he  might 
remain  out  of  sight  till  needed  for  the  final 
scene. 

When  the  curtain  was  withdrawn  and  dis 
closed  to  the  audience  the  figure  of  the  professor 
standing  before  the  candle  footlights  in  irre 
proachable  black  and  white,  it  disclosed  to  him, 
on  the  other  hand,  a  house  full  to  the  remotest 
corners,  a  dense  row  of  "  standees  "  filling  the 
space  behind  the  seats.  His  eyes  gleamed  with 
gratification,  and  the  fingers  of  his  thin,  nervous 
brown  hands  worked  with  manifest  excitement 
as  he  stood  facing  the  silenced  audience.  In 
deed,  almost  the  entire  population  of  the  town 
was  before  him.  Lawyer  Clark  and  his  wife 
were  there;  so  were  the  Bradburys,  even 
Nathan  himself,  who  went  out  so  little  nowa 
days;  Mr.  Pickering  and  his  daughter  Mattie 
had  prominent  seats;  and  there  were  also 
there  the  Kembles,  the  Sayres,  the  Reeds,  the 
Leavitts,  Miss  Jewett  and  Ann,  Miss  Lorinda 
Park,  the  Wheelers,  of  course,  with  'Vinie  and 


THE   CATASTROPHE  261 

Bruce ;  and  Burt  Way  in  another  part  of  the 
hall,  his  glances  continually  drawn  toward 
'Vinie,  despite  his  determination  to  look  the 
other  way.  Even  Tom  Henry  and  Sneezer 
Watkins  and  their  families  were  present,  Tom 
having  recovered  from  the  accident  of  his 
broken  leg,  and  Sneezer  having  had  an  extra 
windfall  of  a  dollar  or  two  by  some  recent 
profitable  odd  job.  It  was  emphatically  a  pay 
ing  house,  and  Franco  had  abundant  incitement 
to  meet  and  if  possible  to  surpass  its  expecta 
tions. 

His  dark  eyes  flashed  here  and  there  along 
the  rows  of  faces  before  him,  as,  with  much 
empressement  and  with  a  certain  nervous  tension, 
he  made  a  step  forward  and  delivered  his  volu 
ble  introductory  harangue. 

The  legerdemain  and  juggling  proved  even 
more  brilliant  than  at  the  exhibition  at  Hing- 
ham.  Franco  seemed  to  be  on  his  mettle.  His 
feats  went  off  with  marvelous  elan,  and  the 
hand-clapping  and  foot-pounding  were  fre 
quent.  The  hall  became  close  and  hot,  but  the 
audience  little  noticed  this  as  they  leaned 
intently  forward,  genuinely  absorbed  in  the 
performance.  The  Frenchman  himself  grew 
quicker  and  quicker  in  his  motions.  He  strode 
animatedly  from  one  side  of  the  stage  to  the 
other,  keeping  up  an  impassioned  monologue, 
and  gesticulating  more  and  more  dramatically 


262  OLD  BO  WEN'S  LEGACY 

with  the  introduction  of  each  new  and  telling 
illusion.  When  the  curtain  was  finally  closed, 
as  a  preliminary  to  the  last  and  crowning 
act,  Felton  was  enthusiastic;  while  Coe,  com 
ing  through  the  rear  partition  door  upon  the 
stage  to  arrange  for  the  ensuing  scene,  found 
the  conjurer  panting  heavily,  bathed  in  per 
spiration,  and  worked  up  to  a  high  pitch  of 
stage  triumph  and  excitement.  He  waved  Coe 
off  for  the  moment  with  a  curiously  fierce  and 
almost  vindictive  look,  his  eyes  glittering 
strangely.  Coe  wondered  rather  scornfully  at 
this  agitation  over  what  was  to  the  performer 
but  one  of  many  country  exhibitions.  The 
Frenchman  recovered  himself  instantly,  how 
ever,  as  Secor  too  came  out,  and  the  three  pro 
ceeded  to  arrange  the  properties  for  the  coming 
climax.  The  lay  figure  was  in  readiness  at  the 
rear,  bound  to  a  duplicate  door.  When  all  was 
prepared,  Garrett  Coe,  hastily  pulling  on  the 
dark-brown  gloves  which  matched  the  figure's, 
slipped  outside  by  a  window  at  the  rear  of  the 
stage,  and  hurried  around  to  the  front,  where 
he  entered  quietly  behind  the  throng  of  stan 
dees. 

Once  more  the  curtain  was  withdrawn,  and 
Franco,  still  visibly  excited,  explained  what  he 
was  about  to  do.  When  he  ended,  and,  an 
nouncing  the  name  of  Garrett  Coe  as  the  one 
who  was  to  be  vivisected,  called  on  the  latter 


THE   CATASTEOPHE  263 

to  appear,  the  interest  and  excitement  in  the 
hall  leaped  to  a  high  pitch.  There  was  a  simul 
taneous  movement  of  heads  and  craning  of 
necks,  and  many  who  were  sitting  stood  up  for 
a  better  view,  as  Coe  quietly  forced  his  way 
through  those  standing  at  the  back  and 
marched  up  the  aisle  in  the  center.  His  face 
was  pale,  and  he  himself  had  caught  something 
of  the  pervading  spirit  of  excitement,  and  trem 
bled  just  a  little  with  a  touch  of  stage-fright. 
It  was  scarcely  to  be  wondered  at,  for  this  con 
spicuous  appearance  could  not  but  be  intensely 
trying  to  him.  The  marks  of  his  winter's  ill 
ness  and  hard  work  were  upon  his  face,  besides, 
and  a  low  murmur  of  surprise  and  almost  com 
passion  ran  through  the  hall  as  he  made  his 
way  toward  the  footlights,  and  turning  to  the 
left,  ascended  the  stage  by  the  small,  movable 
set  of  steps. 

"  Now,  genteelmen,"  called  out  the  professor, 
in  brisk,  electric  tones,  "  weel  two  of  you  please 
also  to  step  up  to  ze  stage  and  asseest  me  to 
bind  Monsieur  G-arrett  Coe  securely  wis  ze 
rope  ? " 

Walt  Hopkins  and  Cheever  Hayes  sprang 
promptly  forward  and  ascended  the  steps  to 
the  platform.  The  professor  produced  a  length 
of  clothes-line;  Coe  took  his  position  with  his 
back  to  the  closed  door  in  the  partition  at  the 
rear  of  the  stage,  and  the  two  volunteers  pro- 


264  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

ceeded,  after  a  word  of  greeting  to  the  farmer,  to 
bind  him  securely  to  the  pegs  fixed  for  the 
purpose  in  the  door. 

"As  tight  as  you  like,"  admonished  Mon 
sieur  Franco.  "Zere  is  no  deception  about 
zis." 

The  binding  was  faithfully  and  thoroughly 
done,  and  Coe  stood  pinioned,  gloved  hand  and 
booted  foot.  He  returned  unflinchingly  the 
gaze  of  the  myriad  eyes  bent  upon  him. 

"  Step  down,  please,"  said  the  professor 
abruptly  to  the  two  helpers.  They  obeyed 
rather  surprisedly,  having  expected  to  remain 
on  the  stage  as  close  witnesses.  Coe  himself 
was  slightly  surprised,  remembering  that  the 
witnesses  at  the  performance  in  Hingham  had 
remained. 

Franco  reached  down  and  lifted  up  the  short, 
movable  set  of  steps,  placing  it  upon  the  stage. 
He  then  stepped  to  Coe's  door,  as  if  to  inspect 
his  bonds,  and  conspicuously  fastened  the  door 
with  the  bolt.  The  audience  noted  this  with 
approval,  but  Coe  wondered  at  it  as  seeming  to 
defeat  the  accomplishment  of  the  trick.  Still 
with  quick  steps,  the  Frenchman  moved  to  a 
side-table  and  took  up  his  formidable,  sharp- 
pointed  carving-knife,  and  also  another  small 
object,  which  he  pocketed.  As  he  advanced  to 
the  front  of  the  stage,  the  knife  trembled  a 
little  in  his  clasp,  and  the  spectators  were 


THE  CATASTROPHE  265 

momentarily  startled  at  his  realistically  san 
guinary  expression. 

"  Ladies  and  genteelmen ! "  he  said  loudly. 
"  In  zis  little  tragedy,  you  are  to  imagine  zat  zis 
man  is  my  enemy.  For  zat  reason,  I  cut  him, 
zen  I  am  perhaps  sorry  and  restore  him.  You 
are  to  imagine  zat  I  haf  long  hated  zis  man ; 
zat  I  worked  for  him  on  ze  farm  last  summer, 
at  a  time  when  I  was  out  of  luck  and  when  my 
stage  property  was  held  for  debt  in  Rutland. 
I  had  not  zese  w'iskers  zen.  He  kicked  me  off 
ze  farm, — kicked  me,  you  understand,  eh? — 
me,  a  Frangais,  well  born  and  proud, — and 
insulted  me."  The  audience  enjoyed  the 
dramatic  little  tale,  but  Coe  felt  a  sudden 
vague  start  of  fear  as  he  realized  that  the  ges 
ticulating  professor  was  narrating  fact.  Franco 
spoke  rapidly  on : 

"  I  swore  to  haf  revenge.  I  was  coming  here 
zis  week,  when  I  meet  him  in  Hingham,  and 
know  him,  and  haste  to  plan  zis  spectacle.  I 
hate  him,  you  understand!  My  honor  must 
haf  sateesfaction."  The  man's  earnestness  was 
very  real,  and  the  listeners  were  vastly  pleased. 
Coe  could  utter  no  word.  "  Eet  was  enough  to 
wound  him.  Zat  I  was  going  to  do.  I  care 
nossing  for  ze  consequences.  Is  eet  not  honor  ?  " 
His  voice  rose  higher.  "  But  I  come  to  hees 
house  zis  night,  and  I  find  he  haf  stolen  my 
little  girl, — Joline  is  my  name,  Franco  ze  stage 


266  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

name, — and  he  taunt  me  wis  cruelty,  and  say 
he  weel  not  ever  gif  her  up,  and  I  know  he 
weel  not,  and  he  rob  me  of  my  child !  " 

The  knife  waved  in  the  air. 

"And  for  ze  one  sing,— ze  kick,— I  wound 
him." 

"  Help ! "  cried  Coe,  suddenly. 

"  And  for  ze  ozzer,  I  kill  him !  " 

There  was  a  swift  thrill  of  panic  in  the  audi 
ence.  They  did  not  realize  even  yet  that  this 
was  not  all  part  of  the  exhibition,  but  some 
thing  in  the  orator's  raving  eye,  his  now  hot 
and  frenzied  utterance,  genuinely  alarmed 
them.  Several  men  rose  to  their  feet.  Coe 
struggled  violently  to  get  an  arm  loose,  and 
instinctively  shouted  again.  Tom  Secor  at  the 
rear  heard  him  and  tried  to  wrench  open  the 
door,  but  the  bolt  and  hinges  held  securely. 

"  Stand  back !  "  yelled  the  mad  Frenchman, 
brandishing  his  savage  blade  with  the  left 
hand,  and  with  the  right  whipping  out  from 
his  pocket  a  gleaming  revolver.  "Eef  any  of 
you  climb  up  here,  I  shoot.  I  am  going  to  kill 
zis  brute,  Garrett  Coe,  wis  ze  knife,  before  you 
all,  as  I  haf  advertised.  But  I  shall  not  bring 
him  to  life  again  !  " 

There  was  a  rush  for  the  high  stage.  Men 
swarmed  at  it  from  all  directions.  Far  at  the 
rear  of  the  hall  a  woman's  shriek  rose  above  all 
the  other  noise  in  the  room.  The  Frenchman, 


THE   CATASTEOPHE  267 

now  clearly  beside  himself  with  passionate 
frenzy,  discharged  his  revolver,  though  without 
effect.  Then,  before  the  rescuers  could  strug 
gle  to  a  footing  on  the  platform  or  the  desper 
ate  wrenches  of  the  carpenter  behind  the  door 
could  loosen  its  fastenings,  Franco  had  leaped 
back  to  his  bound  victim,  and  with  his  left  hand 
he  drove  the  long,  keen  knife  deep  into  Coe's 
shoulder,  the  blood  spurting  forth  at  the  act. 

The  uproar  was  indescribable.  Men  were 
shouting,  and  women  cried  out  hysterically. 
The  madman  had  no  time  for  a  second  blow, 
for  the  rescuers  were  upon  him,  and  he  was 
borne  down  by  a  dozen  iron  hands,  while  men 
cut  and  tore  loose  Coe's  bonds  and  caught  his 
insensible  form  as  it  fell  released. 

But  penetrating  through  all  other  sounds 
rose  again  a  distracted  shriek  at  the  rear  of 
the  hall,  and  a  woman  was  seen  wildly  forcing 
her  way  forward  through  the  throng.  She  had 
dashed  off  a  veil  she  had  worn,  and  at  sight  of 
her  face,  all,  even  the  most  excited,  instinc 
tively  made  way.  It  was  Mrs.  Coe. 

Few  in  Felton  ever  forgot  that  thrilling 
night.  The  Frenchman,  still  yelling  impreca 
tions  and  now  frothing  at  the  mouth,  was  sav 
agely  bound  with  stout  pieces  of  the  clothes 
line;  while  Mrs.  Coe,  swiftly  assisted  toward 
the  stage  and  then  bodily  lifted  upon  it,  was  on 
her  knees  at  her  unconscious  husband's  side 


268  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

and  seeking  desperately  to  staunch  the  flow  of 
blood.  'Viriie  had  sprung  toward  the  stage 
even  before  her,  and  the  two  met  once  more 
face  to  face  over  the  man's  prostrate  body. 

The  village  doctor  was  also  prompt  to  reach 
the  stage.  The  stab  was  in  the  left  shoulder, 
and  though  deep  and  dangerous,  he  pronounced 
it  not  necessarily  fatal.  He  soon  had  the  flow 
of  blood  arrested,  and  temporarily  bandaged 
the  wound.  The  door  was  lifted  from  its 
hinges  to  serve  as  a  stretcher.  The  Clarks, 
who  lived  near  the  hall,  urged  that  Cpe  be 
carried  to  their  home;  and  many  others,  in 
cluding  the  Wheelers,  likewise  offered  their 
houses.  But  Mrs.  Coe,  who  little  knew  the 
reduced  resources  of  her  old  home,  pleaded  for 
the  doctor's  consent  to  his  being  taken  directly 
there,  and  finally  won  her  point.  Preparations 
being  made,  the  litter  was  raised  and  carried 
off  by  willing  and  tender  hands,  while  Mrs.  Coe 
and  'Vinie,  with  the  scared  Bruce,  were  accom 
panied  by  many  of  their  friends  as  they  followed 
after  it.  The  town  seemed  then  and  there  to 
take  the  stricken  family  to  its  heart  once  more 
and  unreservedly, — a  public  rarely  doing  things 
by  halves.  The  Wheelers  furtively  slipped 
around  to  their  own  house  on  the  way  to  the 
Goes',  and  hurried  after  the  party  later  with  a 
basket  of  supplies  which  they  wisely  guessed 
might  be  needed  in  the  depleted  larder. 


THE   CATASTROPHE  269 

Those  remaining  in  the  hall  deliberated  over 
their  prisoner.  But  while  they  stood  over  him, 
watching  his  vindictive  grimaces  and  listening 
to  his  incoherent  and  violent  raving,  a  sudden 
change  came  upon  him.  His  face  flamed  a 
fierce  purple;  his  eyes,  coal-black  and  glaring, 
seemed  as  though  about  to  start  from  their 
sockets;  his  voice  gave  way;  he  made  a  con 
vulsive  movement  to  rise,  and  fell  stiffly  back. 

The  doctor,  who  had  gone  with  Coe,  was 
instantly  sent  for,  and  came  hurrying  in  again. 

"  Dead,"  he  said  curtly,  after  examining  the 
body.  "  Apoplectic  fit.  No  wonder !  A  good 
riddance  too,  I  should  say." 


XVIII 
"A  HAPPY  ISSUE" 

FOE  the  next  few  days  Garrett  Coe  knew 
very  little  of  what  was  passing  around 
him.  In  his  physically  weakened  state,  the 
wound  proved  even  more  serious  than  would 
otherwise  have  been  the  case,  and  the  inflam 
mation  was  complicated  with  a  low  fever  which 
kept  his  vital  powers  feeble.  During  his  inter 
vals  of  consciousness,  he  lay  very  still  on  his 
pillow,  asking  no  questions,  seeking  no  informa 
tion  ;  and  whether  his  mind  at  these  periods 
was  silently  but  still  steadily  revolving  its 
thoughts,  or  whether  it  had  for  the  time  ceased 
to  do  this,  it  was  impossible  to  tell. 

His  wife  watched  over  him  with  unflagging 
care,  and  there  was  no  lack  of  warm-hearted 
volunteers  to  aid  her.  The  pantry  was  kept  mys 
teriously  supplied,  and  Mrs.  Coe,  her  thoughts 
and  attention  all  centered  upon  the  bedside, 
little  noted  the  circumstance.  'Vinie  prepared 
the  meals,  helped  by  generous-hearted  Belle 
Sayre.  On  the  eighth  day,  the  gruff  doctor 

270 


"A   HAPPY  ISSUE"  271 

gave  a  more  satisfied  nod  as  he  drove  off,  while 
Garrett  began  to  feel  a  salutary  restlessness 
and  a  desire  to  ask  questions. 

As  he  turned  his  face  on  the  pillow  to  observe 
his  wife,  who  sat  near  and  had  taken  up  some 
sewing,  he  gave  a  deep,  racking  cough,  as  he 
had  so  often  done  of  late.  She  came  quickly 
nearer. 

"How  'd  you  git  there  thet  night,  Sally?" 
he  asked. 

Mrs.  Coe  put  her  thin,  worn  hand  caressingly 
upon  his  forehead. 

"  I  heared  durin'  th'  week  through  Walt  Hop 
kins  'bout  th'  performance,  an'  it  sounded  so 
queer,  I  jest  felt  I  hed  t'  see  it — an'  you.  Walt 
said  he  'd  drive  me  over  fr'm  Wes'bury  Friday 
afternoon,  an'  he  'd  fix  it  f'r  me  t'  stay  all  night 
at  th'  Sayres',  an'  drive  me  back  nex'  mornin' ; 
an'  there  need  n't  many  know  anythin'  'bout  it." 

"  An'  y'  was  n't  even  goin'  t'  tell  me  1 " 

"No,  I  was  n't,"  she  said  determinedly. 
"  But  oh,  Garrett !  when  I  saw  thet  dreadful 
man  fust  come  out  on  th'  stage,  an'  heared  his 
voice,  I  jest  felt  somethin'  was  goin' t'  happen." 

"  I  did  n't  know  his  voice." 

"  I  did ;  though  I  could  n't  seem  t'  place  it." 

"What 's  b'come  o'  th'  fellow?" 

Mrs.  Coe  told  him.  He  lay  still  for  a  few 
minutes,  greatly  impressed. 

"He  wa'  n't  responsible,"  he  said.     "He  'd 


272  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

worked  himself  up  till  he  was  jest  ravin'  crazy, 
I  c'n  see  now.  An'  I  don't  say  thet  he  did  n't 
owe  me  consider'ble  f'r  thet  kick  an'  all,  any 
way.  I  guess  I  got  off  as  well 's  I  d'serve." 

The  Frenchman's  other  and  greater  cause  of 
animosity  came,  at  this,  into  his  mind. 

"Where  's  th'  little  girl?"  he  asked,  strug 
gling  with  another  cough. 

"  She  's  here  in  th'  house,  an'  wantin'  every 
day  t'  see  ye,"  his  wife  reassured  him.  "  She 
don'  know  anythin'  o'  what 's  happened." 

"  We  've  got  t'  keep  her,"  he  said  positively. 

His  wife  did  not  answer  directly.  It  was  a 
problem  that  had  been  troubling  her.  She  too 
had  been  led  captive  by  the  little  waif,  yet  felt 
how  ill  prepared  they  were  to  undertake  her 
adoption. 

"Y'  must  n't  talk  any  more  now,  Grarrett 
dear,"  she  said.  "A  little  at  a  time  only,  th' 
doctor  said." 

He  turned  away  obediently,  and  soon  dozed 
off  again. 

In  the  afternoon,  when  he  again  began  to 
look  about  restlessly,  he  found  Mr.  Clark  in  the 
room  conversing  with  Mrs.  Coe.  The  lawyer 
returned  his  greeting  with  unreserved  and 
almost  wistful  friendliness. 

"  Grarrett,"  he  said,  after  they  had  talked  for 
a  few  moments,  "I  owe  it  to  you,  and  the 
quicker  the  better,  to  take  back  anything  I  may 


"A   HAPPY   ISSUE"  273 

have  thought  about  that  fire ;  and  every  one  else 
wants  to  say  the  same  thing." 

"What  fire?" 

"  Why,  Seed  &  Remble's." 

"What 'bout  it!" 

The  lawyer  was  a  trifle  nonplussed. 

"  Thinking  you — you  might  've  had  some 
thing  to  do  with  it,  and  all  that,  you  know,"  he 
explained  lamely. 

"Me?"  ejaculated  Coe,  with  a  quick,  remi 
niscent  flash  of  his  old  hostile  tone.  "Who 
ever  said  I  hed  anythin'  t'  do  with  it?" 

"  Why,  did  n't  you  even  know  people  thought 
so  ?  "  uttered  the  lawyer,  in  astonishment. 

"  How  sh'd  I  know  sech  a  thing  ?  I  ain't 
hardly  stirred  out  o'  this  door  sence  it  hap 
pened.  An?  you  mean  thet  folks  've  been 
thin  kin'  thet  I — "  He  paused,  overcome  with 
the  idea.  "  Well,  I  did  n't,  Mr.  Clark,"  he  added 
more  quietly. 

"No;  that  's  all  known  now,"  the  other  as 
sured  him,  almost  sorry  that  he  had  raised  the 
topic. 

"  Well,  now  I  want  t'  know  who  did  do  it," 
persisted  the  sick  man,  his  thoughts  engrossed 
with  this  new  subject. 

"Oh,  I  would  n't  mind  about  it  at  present," 
the  lawyer  said  evasively,  willing  to  shift  the 
discussion. 

"I   do    mind,"   returned    Coe,   though    not 

18 


274  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

ungently.  "I  never  dreamt  I  was  mixed  up 
with  it.  Who  did  it,  then ! " 

Mr.  Clark  looked  appealingly  at  Mrs.  Coe. 

"  Why,  dear,"  she  said,  "  it  's  all  over  now, 
an'  I  've  told  people  how  I  found  it  out ;  but — " 

"You  found  it  out?" 

"  Only  jest  on  th'  very  mornin'  b'fore  I  druv 
over  here.  'T  was  Garrie ! " 

"Garrie?" 

"  Yes.  He  seemed  dreadful  frightened  when 
I  told  him  I  was  comin'  over  t'  Felton  ag'in. 
In  fact,  he  's  acted  queer  all  winter.  An'  b'fore 
I  started,  it  all  came  out." 

Coe  lay  amazed,  grappling  with  the  informa 
tion. 

"  'T  was  an  accident,  o'  course.  He  'd  been 
whittlin'  down  there  in  th'  alley,  thet  afternoon, 
with  some  other  boys." 

Coe  nodded. 

"I  remember,"  he  said.  "He  'd  used  my 
knife,  an'  he  lost  it  there,  an'  I  went  down  late 
in  th'  evenin'  t'  try  an'  find  it." 

"  Well,  it  seems  they  'd  started  a  little  bonfire 
there,  an'  by  an'  by  they  heared  Mr.  Reed's 
voice  'bout  somethin',  'round  at  th'  rear  door, 
an'  th'  other  boys  ran,  an'  Garrie  he  jest  poked 
th'  burnin'  shavin's  down  th'  store  cellar  win 
dow  an'  ran  too." 

"  They  must  have  fallen  on  some  waste  or 
something,  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Clark,  taking  up 


"A  HAPPY   ISSUE"  275 

the  narration,  "  and  this  smoldered  away  till  it 
blazed  up  in  the  evening.  You  must  have  been 
down  there  just  before  the  fire  broke  out." 

The  wounded  man  took  it  all  in  slowly. 

"An'  they  thought  I  did  it?"  he  said  at 
length,  with  another  little  cough,  which  gave  a 
twinge  of  pain  to  the  bandaged  shoulder. 

"Well,  yes,  most  did,"  reluctantly  admitted 
Mr.  Clark,  adding  quite  humbly :  "  We  've  done 
you  an  injustice,  Garrett;  and  I  guess  every 
one  's  feeling  kind  of  sorry  about  it.  I  am,  for 
one." 

"Y'  need  n't,  Mr.  Clark,"  answered  Coe, 
heartily.  "Nobody  need.  I  guess  p'r'aps 
they  've  hed  reason  fr'm  other  things.  Only 
I  'm  glad  I  did  n't  know  of  it,  all  these  months. 
I  've  hed  enough,  as  it  is." 

He  said  it  simply  and  without  appeal,  but  his 
wife  leaned  over  him  and  buried  her  face  on 
the  pillow,  while  Mr.  Clark  experienced  an  odd 
thrill  of  feeling. 

"  Where  is  Garrie  1  ".queried  Coe 

"  I  've  kep'  th'  boys  out,  most  o'  th'  time," 
Mrs.  Coe  replied,  raising  her  head  but  still 
standing  bending  over  him.  "He  's  'round, 
though.  Walt  brought  him  over  nex'  day. 
An'  y'  don'  know  how  relieved  an'  lively  he  's 
been,  an'  how  he  's  picked  up  this  week,  sence 
he  got  thet  thing  off  his  mind.  He  knew  't  was 
th'  shavin's  thet  did  it,  th'  minute  th'  fire  hap- 


276  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

pened.  He  's  worried  'bout  you,  of  course,  but 
tellin'  tli'  other  's  done  him  jest  a  heap  o'  good. 
I  could  n't  guess  what 's  been  in  him  all  th' 
winter." 

"OP  Eeed  know  it  now?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Clark.  "  He  is  n't  going  to 
do  anything.  He  probably  'd  have  more  diffi 
culty  than  inducement.  Insurance  company, 
the  same.  It  was  half  an  accident,  you  see. 
And — "  He  glanced  around. 

"An'  they  would  n't  git  much  on  damages 
here  I "  finished  Coe. 

"  Well,  no.     Anyway,  the  matter 's  dropped." 

"We  got  somethin'  else  t'  tell  ye,  Garrett," 
went  on  Mrs.  Coe,  eagerly,  as  she  resumed  her 
seat, — "thet  is,  ef  y'  feel  like  hearin'  things 
now." 

"Jest  like  it,"  assented  her  husband,  with 
interest.  "  I  'm  feelin'  fine.  What  is  it  I " 

"  Whoever  d'  y'  s'pose  thet  Frenchman  was  ? " 

"  I  don'  know." 

"An' little  Julie!" 

"  Not  th' least  idee." 

"What  'd  she  tell  ye  was  her  name?  She 
told  me." 

"Joline,  she  said.  Julie  B.  Joline.  I  re 
member  th'  'B.'" 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Coe,  triumphantly,  "thet 
'B'  stan's  f'r  Bo  wen." 

"Bowen?"  ejaculated  Coe. 


"A   HAPPY   ISSUE"  277 

"  Yes,  Bowen.  An'  she  's  ol'  Sim  Bowen's 
own  grandniece." 

"  Th'  dickens  she  is !  "  cried  Garrett,  astounded 
at  this  new  disclosure. 

"Lawyer  Clark,  here,  found  it  out.  He  's 
been  makin'  inquiries,  y'  know." 

"  Mr.  Bowen  once  had  a  married  sister  living 
out  in  New  York  State,  somewheres  near  Water- 
town,"  explained  the  lawyer.  "I  knew  that 
long  ago.  She  died ;  and  I  remember  his  telling 
me  that  her  only  daughter  ran  off  and  got 
married  to  some  foreigner.  He  never  knew 
anything  more,  except  that  she  died  too ;  but  it 
turns  out  that  this  French  conjurer  was  her 
husband,  and  that  she  died  in  giving  birth  to  a 
little  girl.  I  don't  believe  the  Frenchman  ever 
knew  there  was  such  an  uncle  in  existence,  and 
old  Bowen,  on  his  part,  probably  did  n't  even 
know  the  man's  name." 

There  was  a  good  deal  in  all  this  for  the 
invalid  to  digest,  and  he  lay  in  absorbed  silence 
for  some  time. 

"  How  'd  y'  find  it  out  ? "  he  inquired. 

"  Oh,  I  had  to  trace  up  the  dead  man's 
belongings,  over  at  the  Hingham  House,  and — " 

"He  was  at  th'  Central  Hotel.  Leastways, 
thet  was  where  we  hed  supper,  one  night." 

"  "Well,  he  was  n't  staying  there.  He  was  at 
the  Hingham.  And  his  papers  and  things 
finally  put  me  on  the  track,  and  I  've  since 


278  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

written  out  to  Watertown  and  had  a  reply. 
It 's  all  so." 

"  An'  little  Julie  is—" 

"Little  Julie  is  old  Bowen's  only  remaining 
kith  or  kin." 

There  was  another  interval  of  quiet. 

"I  wish  she  was  mine,"  said  Coe;  and  the 
tremor  in  his  voice  betrayed  how  strongly  he 
had  become  attached  to  the  child  in  the  three 
or  four  days  following  her  finding.  She  had 
come  to  him  when  he  was  loneliest  and  in  sorest 
need  of  human  love,  and  his  starved  heart  had 
devoured  her.  His  eyes  after  a  minute  sought 
his  wife's. 

"  I  've  got  plenty  t'  keer  fur,"  he  said.  "  An' 
I  find  I  keer  f'r  'em  more  than  I  knew  I  did. 
Only  they  '11  hev  t'  keer  fr  me  now, — in  th' 
other  sense."  He  coughed  a  little,  and  again 
the  pain  in  his  shoulder  caught  him.  "  I  '11 
never  be  good  f'r  work  any  more,  most  likely." 

Mrs.  Coe  turned  away  a  moment,  but  the 
lawyer  said  cheerfully : 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  will,  Garrett.  The  doctor  says 
he  '11  have  you  around  again  in  a  couple  of 
months."  He  made  no  reference  to  other  things 
the  doctor  had  said. 

"Y'  can't  farm  much  with  one  arm,"  said 
Coe,  with  a  weary  little  smile ;  "  partic'larly 
when  there  ain't  anythin'  o'  the  farm  left  but 
loose  rocks  an'  a  mortgage." 


"A  HAPPY  ISSUE"  279 

"  There,  now,  Garrett,"  interposed  his  wife. 
"  Don't  you  think  o'  sech  things.  We  '11  live 
somehow.  Y'  've  talked  enough  now, — hain't 
he,  Mr.  Clark  I" 

"  Perhaps  I  've  talked  too  much  with  him," 
said  the  latter,  with  compunction.  "  He  seemed 
to  want  to  hear  things  so." 

"  Course  I  do,"  returned  Coe,  gratefully.  "  I 
ain't  tired  th'  least  bit." 

"  Well,  you  turn  over  now,  anyway,"  said  the 
lawyer ;  and  he  took  his  leave,  while  Mrs.  Coe 
arranged  the  pillow  and  made  the  sick  man 
comfortable,  proceeding  afterward  to  lay  out 
new  bandages  and  a  basin  for  warm  water 
pending  the  doctor's  approaching  call. 

The  invalid  gained  gradually  during  the  next 
few  days,  and  was  soon  enabled  to  sit  up  a 
little.  The  wound  was  healing  fairly  well, 
though  the  left  arm  seemed  likely  to  be  per 
manently  disabled.  The  cough,  however,  was 
giving  the  doctor  no  little  concern.  Coe's  con 
stitution  had  in  truth  suffered  severely  during 
the  winter,  and  his  emaciated  form  and  hollow 
features  presented  a  striking  and  saddening 
contrast  to  his  former  appearance.  Mrs.  Coe 
hung  over  him  ceaselessly  and  remorsefully, 
blaming  herself  with  merciless  exaggeration  for 
all  his  sufferings,  and  filled  with  unresting 
solicitude.  'Vinie  and  the  boys  and  little  Julie 
now  came  in  and  out  freely.  As  Coe  became 


280  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

able  to  see  people,  there  were  people  in  plenty 
to  see.  Every  one  wanted  to  greet  him  once 
more,  and  grasp  his  thin  hand,  and  bury  old 
scores.  The  facts  about  the  fire  had  now 
become  well  known,  and  all  felt  a  vague,  rue 
ful  desire  to  do  justice  for  their  unfounded 
suspicions  and  atone  in  some  degree  by  a  new 
friendliness.  And  of  course  the  dramatic 
events  of  the  evening  of  the  performance  had 
broken  down  all  barriers  of  reserve,  and  the 
previously  accumulating  sympathy  for  his 
recent  ill  fortunes  had  burst  forth  in  a  tor 
rent. 

The  sensation  over  the  disclosure  of  little 
Julie's  existence  and  relationship  was  great, 
and  the  child  came  in  for  no  small  amount  of 
attention  and  petting  from  the  visitors  who 
daily  came  to  the  house.  But  their  chief  in 
terest  centered  about  Coe.  The  latter's  wife 
had  come  to  know  the  true  state  of  the  larder, 
and  to  realize  the  condition  of  financial  affairs ; 
but  the  neighbors  laughed  good-humoredly 
at  her  remonstrances,  and  few  came  to  the 
house  without  slipping  into  the  kitchen  and 
leaving  a  small  parcel  or  larger  basket  upon 
the  table.  Mrs.  Coe  was  sorely  troubled  over 
this  dependence,  necessitated  as  it  was  for  the 
present;  and  though  she  said  nothing  to  her 
husband  about  the  matter,  he  guessed  the 
facts  more  and  more  clearly,  and  the  resulting 


"A  HAPPY  ISSUE"  281 

worry  did  not  brighten  his  eyes  nor  round  out 
his  sunken  cheeks. 

"  Where 's  'Vinie  this  afternoon  ? "  Coe  asked, 
one  sunshiny  April  day. 

"She  's  gone  out  t'  walk,"  said  his  wife, 
hesitatingly. 

"Alone!" 

"N-no, — not  exac'ly." 

"Who  with?" 

Mrs.  Coe  looked  cornered. 

"With— with  Burt  Way,"  she  plumped  out 
awkwardly. 

"  Burt !    Why,  they  broke  off  long  ago." 

"  Yes."  Mrs.  Coe's  reluctance  to  speak 
melted  into  a  contented  little  laugh.  "But  I 
guess  they  're  mendin'  things  ag'in." 

"  I  want  t'  know !  " 

"  I  've  kind  o'  seen  it  comin'  on,  fr'm  watchin' 
'Vinie  a  little.  But  I  was  n't  goin'  t'  tell  ye 
till 't  was  reelly  done  an'  settled." 

"  Oh,  y'  can't  keep  things  fr'm  me,  I  tell  ye," 
Coe  said,  with  childish  pride.  "  I  hev  my  eyes 
open." 

She  did  not  attempt  to  dispel  this  fatuous 
but  mild  delusion. 

"  Burt 's  jest  as  good  as  gold,"  she  said,  "  an' 
as  strong  an'  true  as  he  is  good.  I  guess  'Vinie 
rather  mis j  edged  him  awhile  back,  an'  she  's 
been  watchin'  him  lately  an'  kind  o'  f  eelin'  surer 
what  fine  stuff  he  's  made  of." 


282  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

"  Has  she  said  anythin'  t'  you  1 " 

"  She  told  me,  fust  off,  all  'bout  th'  thing  bein' 
broken  off.  Of  course  I  knew  it  b'fore,  fr'm 
one  of  her  letters  this  winter.  Thet  's  all  she  's 
said." 

"An'  now  she  's  gone  off  f 'r  a  walk  with  him  ? " 

"  Yes.     Jest  a  little  while  ago." 

He  leaned  back  in  his  rocker  and  revolved 
the  news  with  satisfaction  for  'Vinie. 

"Then  we  '11  need  Julie  all  th'  more,  ma!" 
he  said,  almost  pleadingly. 

Mrs.  Coe  did  not  reply,  fearing  yet  to  voice 
her  accumulating  misgivings  as  to  future  ways 
and  means  for  providing  even  for  the  remain 
ing  ones  of  their  own  little  family  circle.  Coe 
with  his  right  hand  restlessly  adjusted  his 
helpless  left  arm  more  comfortably  on  the  cush 
ioned  chair-arm. 

"  'Vinie  did  n't  once  write  me  how  sick  you 
was,  Garrett, — with  thet  cough  an'  all,"  said 
his  wife,  presently. 

"  She  did  n't  know, — not  till  a  few  days  b'fore 
you  came.  An'  then  I  told  her  not  to." 

There  was  silence  again,  broken  soon  by  the 
distant  click  of  the  front  gate  and  the  sound  of 
footsteps  on  the  path.  Visitors  had  fallen  into 
the  way  of  entering  without  knocking,  and  Mrs. 
Ode  did  not  go  to  the  door.  She  looked  a  little 
surprised,  however,  when  three  men  entered  the 
bare  little  sitting-room  where  husband  and  wife 


"A   HAPPY   ISSUE"  283 

had  been  talking.  The  three  were  Mr.  Clark, 
Mr.  Bradbury,  and  Mr.  Pickering,  and  their 
hosts  felt  rather  impressed  at  the  simultaneous 
arrival  of  three  such  prominent  citizens. 

Greetings  were  exchanged,  and  the  new 
comers  sat  down. 

"  Mrs.  Coe,"  said  Lawyer  Clark,  "  I  had  a  talk 
with  the  doctor,  the  other  day.  He  says  your 
husband  won't  be  able  to  live  in  this  climate 
any  more." 

The  wife  was  startled.  She  gave  a  quick, 
distressed  look  at  Garrett,  dreading  the  effect 
upon  him  of  this  bluntly  put  statement. 

"  But  we  can't  go  anywheres  else,"  she  pleaded 
apprehensively.  "  I  think  Garrett  '11  git  all 
right  ag'in." 

"  Course  I  will,"  said  Coe,  more  troubled  for 
his  wife's  discomposure  than  for  himself.  "  I  '11 
be  up  an'  out  now  soon,  an'  'most  as  good  as 
ever." 

"  Did  I  hear  you  cough  as  we  came  in  1 " 

"A  leetle,  mebbe.  Not  t'  amount  t'  any- 
thin'." 

"  The  doctor  says  otherwise.  He  says  you  '11 
get  all  right  in  a  warm  climate,  but  that  you  '11 
have  to  live  there.  Says  another  winter  here  'd 
be  impossible." 

"  Thet  's  nonsense,"  said  Coe,  weakly,  though 
he  realized  that  perhaps  it  was  not. 

"  I  've  got  a  brother  down  in  southern  Ken- 


284  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

tucky,"  pursued  Mr.  Clark.  "  He  's  got  a  stock- 
farm  there.  Peter  Merritt  's  going  out  next 
month,  by  the  way.  Now  I  propose  that  you 
all  move  down  there  and  start  fresh.  There  's 
a  nice  little  place  next  my  brother's  for  sale,  he 
writes  me.  And  Peter  '11  make  a  capital  man 
for  you  to  have  around." 

Coe's  eyes  glistened. 

"  Gee,  how  I  'd  like  it ! "  he  uttered,  with  a 
deep  wistfulness.  "Would  n't  you,  ma?  We 
can't,  of  course ;  but  jest  supposin'." 

Mrs.  Coe  did  not  answer,  but  her  eyes  filled. 

"  Y'  've  no  idee,"  said  Coe,  "  how  I  kind  o' 
dread  gittin'  'round  an'  takin'  up  life  ag'in  here. 
I  've  made  a  pretty  bad  thing  of  it,  somehow. 
Th'  house  an'  th'  farm  an'  th'  town  're  all  full  o' 
hard  reminders.  An'  people  've  been  awful 
good,  but  sometimes  I  feel  as  ef  I  wish  I 
did  n't  hev  t'  face  'em,  y'  know." 

"  I  know,"  assented  Mr.  Clark.  "  Sometimes 
a  man  reaches  a  point  where  he  longs  to  change 
his  whole  surroundings." 

"Thet  's  it,"  cried  Coe.  "Was  it  Kentucky 
you  said?"  He  gave  a  long,  eager  sigh. 
"  Sally,  jest  think  o'  th'  blue-grass,  an'  th'  sun 
shine,  an'  th'  thoroughbreds,  an'  th' — th' — " 

"  Whisky,"  suggested  Mr.  Bradbury,  slyly. 

"  Yes,  th'  whisky,  too ;  an'  th'  new  livin'  an' 
all." 

"  There,  G-arrett,"  urged  his  wife,  quietingly, 


"A   HAPPY   ISSUE"  285 

"  what 's  th'  use  o'  thinkin'  o'  sech  things  ?  We 
can't,  an'  thet  ends  it." 

"  No, we  can't,  o'  course,"  he  agreed,  his  dream 
collapsing. 

"An'  I  don't  think,"  said  gentle  Mrs.  Coe, 
almost  indignantly,  turning  to  Mr.  Clark,  "  thet 
it 's  well  even  t'  bring  sech  idees  up, — ef  I  c'n 
say  so." 

Mr.  Clark  looked  at  Mr.  Bradbury.  Mr. 
Bradbury  looked  at  Mr.  Pickering. 

"  The  fact  is,  Mrs.  Coe,"  said  the  latter,  nerv 
ing  himself  briskly  for  an  announcement, 
"  that  we  think  we  see  a  way  to  bring  the  thing 
to  pass." 

"How  's  thet?"  she  demanded  incredulously. 

"  We  've  awarded  you  old  Bowen's  legacy." 

Coe  gasped,  and  his  wife  found  herself  upon 
her  feet  with  a  great  start. 

"What-  's  thet  y'  say?"  she  questioned 
stupidly. 

The  quarry-owner  repeated  the  fact  clearly, 
and  the  Goes  stared  at  each  other. 

"  It 's  a  fact,  sure,"  put  in  Mr.  Bradbury, 
hugely  relishing  their  astonishment. 

Mr.  Clark  took  up  the  word. 

"We  have  full  power  to  put  that  money 
where  we  honestly  think  it  '11  do  the  most 
good,"  he  said.  "  And  we  've  decided  that  this 
is  the  place  to  put  it, — with  Mrs.  Coe,  for  the 
Coe  family.  It  's  make  or  break  with  you. 


286  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

We  're  going  to  have  it  '  make.'  It 's  exactly 
what  Bowen  would  have  liked." 

"  But,"  stammered  Coe,  "  I  ain't  one  t'  d'serve 
any  sech— " 

"Ask  the  town,"  interrupted  Mr.  Pickering. 
"Pretty  nearly  every  one  in  it  's  been  at  us, 
ever  since  you  've  been  laid  up,  to  do  this  very 
identical  thing." 

"  But  he  said  l  some  one  big  thing,'  did  n't 
he  ?  "  the  farmer  remonstrated. 

"  If  putting  you  right  with  life  again  is  n't 
big,  what  is  I  Mr.  Reed 's  welcome  to  the  farm 
and  all  there  is  on  it.  I  hope  he  '11  find  it 
a  good  bargain."  Mr.  Pickering  chuckled. 
"There  's  a  nice  new  one  down  in  Kentucky 
waiting  for  you,  and  some  money  left  over  for 
you  to  get  Peter  Merritt  help  you  work  it,  and 
to  let  you  live  in  the  sunshine,— all  of  you." 

Coe  drew  a  long  breath.  "  Y'  don't  all  reelly 
mean  this,  do  ye  ? "  he  asked  incredulously. 

"We  certainly  do,"  asseverated  Mr.  Pick 
ering,  very  positively;  and  the  others  nodded 
their  heads. 

"  It  '11  be  th'  makin'  o'  y'r  little  boys,"  remarked 
Mr.  Bradbury, — "  an'  'Vinie  too,  f'r  thet  matter," 
he  added,  with  pretended  unconsciousness. 

"Oh,  as  t'  'Vinie,"  said  Coe,  remembering 
his  wife's  conjectures,  "I  don't  much  b'lieve 
thet  'Vinie  'd  go.  She 's  out  walkin'  with  Burt 
Way." 


"A   HAPPY  ISSUE"  287 

"  Yes ;  we  saw  'em,  up  th'  Henderson  lane," 
smiled  the  ex-deacon;  "an'  we  rather  guessed 
likely  there  'd  be  only  five  o'  ye  t'  go." 

"  But  I  can't  think  all  thet  money  's  meant 
f  r  us,"  Mrs.  Coe  cried,  still  confused. 

"  There  's  a  good  deal  of  justice  in  it,  when 
you  think  it  over,"  observed  Mr.  Clark.  "  Simeon 
Bowen  shut  his  soul  against  the  world,  and  his 
soul  shriveled  up  pretty  small  before  he  died. 
Garrett  Coe  tried  the  same  thing,  but  he  found 
out  his  mistake  in  time  and  it 's  come  out  the 
other  way.  If  Bowen's  uneasy  ghost  is  linger 
ing  about  here  anywhere,  it 's  admiring  Gar- 
rett's  result  best,  you  can  be  sure." 

There  was  a  long  conversation  before  the 
farmer  and  his  wife  could  be  brought  to  believe 
that  this  good  fortune  was  actually  theirs. 

"  Ef  it 's  reelly  so,  then  there  's  one  thing  I 
sh'd  want  t'  do,"  Mrs.  Coe  said.  "  I  'd  want  t' 
reg'larly  adopt  little  Julie,  an'  we  'd  leave  her 
half  th'  property  when  we  're  dead." 

"  Jest  what  flashed  over  me,  too,"  put  in  Coe, 
eagerly.  "It  's  only  fair  fr  her  t'  hev  some 
good  of  her  granduncle's  money." 

"  Good !  "  approved  Mr.  Clark,  heartily.  "  We 
knew  you  'd  do  something  like  that, — though 
we  could  n't  attach  any  conditions." 

"  Well,  we  jest  would ! "  said  Mrs.  Coe,  with 
positiveness. 

"But  why  sh'd  Felton  do  sech  a  thing  fr 


288  OLD  BOWEN'S  LEGACY 

me  ? "  Coe  queried  again.  "  I  've  been  down  on 
Felton  people  pretty  stiddy." 

"  Well,  they  've  been  down  on  you,  and  more 
than  you  deserved  in  one  respect  anyway,  and 
very  likely  more  than  any  man  deserves.  Any 
how,  they  're  voting  for  it.  I  don't  think  that 's 
influenced  us  any,  as  trustees,  but  it 's  pleasant 
to  know  they  approve  our  decision." 

"It 's  a  right  one,  too,"  affirmed  Mr.  Picker 
ing,  with  business-like  certitude,  yet  with  a 
manifest  cordiality. 

"  Givin'  a  big  lift  jest  at  th'  turnin'-p'int  in 
a  man's  hull  life  an'  idees,"  Mr.  Bradbury  put 
in.  "  Y'  can't  do  better  with  money  than  thet." 

There  was  a  distant  sound  of  footsteps  in 
unison.  As  they  listened,  puzzled,  the  tramp 
ing  came  nearer.  The  gate  was  heard  to  click 
open  loudly.  Mrs.  Coe  looked  out,  and  beheld 
an  informal  assemblage  of  Feltonians,  chiefly 
of  the  young  people,  but  with  a  goodly  sprin 
kling  of  older  faces  among  them.  The  news 
that  the  three  trustees  had  gone  to  the  Goes'  to 
declare  their  decision  had  crept  swiftly  about, 
and  there  had  been  an  impulsive  collecting  of 
every  one  within  reach  in  town  who  could  be 
spared,  for  an  impromptu  march  up  to  the 
farmer's  to  clamor  their  indorsement  of  the 
award  and  congratulate  the  recipients. 

Garrett  Coe,  pale  and  disconcerted,  yet  full 
of  gladness,  was  helped  to  his  feet,  and  appeared 


"A  HAPPY  ISSUE"  289 

at  the  opened  window,  where  the  hearty  greet 
ing  he  received  made  bygones  bygones  and 
warmed  his  heart  with  a  new  thrill  of  outgiving 
toward  all  humanity. 

"YES,"  said  Mr.  Kemble,  that  evening,  in  the 
bosom  of  his  family,  "  it  's  queer  how  things 
come  out.  A  year  ago,  I  was  gibin'  at  Garrett 
Coe  as  th'  ugliest  brute  in  town.  Mebbe  't 
wa'  n't  sayin'  so  much,  ef  he  was.  An'  now  I 
vote  th'  committee  's  done  jest  right." 

"  An'  I  think,"  added  Miss  Harvey,  "  it 's  a 
burnin'  shame  they  did  n't  do  it  b'fore." 

At  the  same  time,  Coe,  at  his  home,  was  say 
ing  to  his  wife,  who  was  bending  over  his  chair : 
"Ma,  th'  fust  sixty  dollars  we  git  clear,  off  o' 
th'  Kentucky  farm,  I  'm  goin'  t'  use  t'  buy  back 
thet  candelabber  o'  yours  thet  's  over  in  Hing- 
ham." 


Date  Due 


A    001  362  964    7 


